Though she blames him that her

Love flames arose;

He’s empty, and she knows

we pass by at our ease,
the grass, a hint
of what’s meant by the breeze

a gray and orange pall:
the day weighs hard
within the endless fall

the sky was once,

and he was almost eight —

a life to celebrate

They’re over by the sill,
They stand there still,
Though you and I are done