Lover, she's finally gone. I cannot see

Lover, she's finally gone. I cannot see
my self in this dull mirror, I cannot see
the limits of my being in the texts
of a disoriented library. Lover, I leave

the air a clouded puzzle, a new riddle
and a difficult poem. The bayou water
changes color, purple, blue, gray, pink,
or green in the morning. The thick pigment

and thicker thought, I see the little star
that punctuates the dawn. Golden Jupiter
and the lazy bull, the sensual ecliptic

whirls in a milky light. Lover, I see
your body in the pointless reflection
of shadowy forms on the water's surface.