But haven’t you noticed
beauty’s fallen out of fashion?
Thrown in the sun’s descending car,
it will do as it wishes,
will land like the peacock not ready
for splendor. O ever-pleasing Solitude,
companion of the wise and good,
have I spent too much, or not enough,
of my life on this? There have been, granted,
other things: duty, devotion—
vows cast to the earth,
taking root as seeds and sutures.
All my love I’ve asked: what’s this?
All my life, these topographical errors.