On a sailboat adrift in fog at midnight
no food no drink no matter
absorbed in yet another calculus
his thought not lost but entangled

not feeling the endless rocking of the boat
not feeling damp penetrating his cotton jacket
passing through the organ of his skin
not feeling what he felt when Elsa died

that fission death
making mockery of his longing
to unify all in harmony

My beloved being distant
– if the realm of death has dimension –
carries traces of me
as I in this spring rain carry traces of him
no water can wash away

O lost
impossible the thought
that what at this instant
I am
he is

though no one on the train
staring into the darkness of the valley
can see it