What we can say has already been said



about each painting in the gallery—



about the quality of light, the way she holds her head.







So we are silent in the subway, silent in bed.



Our bodies too are mute; we fall asleep knowing



what we could say has already been said.







Over toast and coffee and the newspaper thoroughly read



the day unfolds between us. I am too weak to carry



this quality of light, the way she holds her head.







I would vow to leave if love had left



if this were the wedding of two gypsies.



But what should I say? It has been said







the dead would properly bury the dead



and here I am, alive at last and buried



by the quality of light, and the way she holds her head.







Perhaps women, sex, love are all over-rated.



Which of us is the artist and which the light? You see,



the words I might say have been better said—



words concerning the quality of light, the way you hold your head.





