A trifle pompously, my love, you move among
                         the mass of nerve-
                 tissue in my cranium:
                                          and as you move
                                  you have become the last
of my inconsequential ironies. At best,
                         chess, too, just
                 a question of pure chance.
                                          A film of dust
                                  girdles your body: for once

I shift you on the board, you will become
                         a solution for which
                 there never was a problem:
                                          that old itch
                                  for order, which we like to hint
exists in what we do. And yet, that blueprint
                         I fashioned once
                 for the motions of the body
                                          ended nice-
                                  ly in a cemetery