#119

Never coming, never going. Never rising to meet what welcomes. Bien and tot. This tender love and cairn. Oh, the many good returns in speech and vision. The reading that one does, admire. If this were Stephen, propped on elbows, J above him, shorn and shorner, what rough rivers of words would flow? Eyes on le pris? Or back to front, one's lips to lips. Steady laps unseated. Stephen? Stephen? The calm ends, Stephen, a gain.

Respice post te! Homnem te esse memento! For which he stands if he can in evening. Anoints thee, yes, in rain. But this gift of mine to exceed, and this gift of J's to grow... Square says, without jesting, nyet. But Stephen faces the mirror bare. In the dark to light. In the heart to bed. Please, I'm grateful even to what sleeps without me.