Even if the mountain burns itself out, even if the survivors slaughter one another—shepherd, sleep. No matter where. I shall find you.

My nails clinging to her black silk net
She drops me, and my forehead strikes
The enchantment of slabs.

By a lane of irises and scarlet mud
going down to the spring to dry it up...

There remains only the flutter
Of minute desirable death-pangs
In the high garden once more locked.