What was desire — Dido bawling from the cliffs,
her general mulling fresher conquests,
that gorgeous insipidity — has gone:
there are high heels clacking in Saskatoon;

what might be — when little stars are great suns
in a universe too large for discourse,
lucid difficulties like adult poems,
so austere a jazz — blinds in this shadow;

what is — neither convoy nor residence,
nothing remembered, nothing found — we have:
our wish, engineered climate, draftsman’s walls,
and our life, single minds in double beds.