With all due respect, sir Gilbert, all you said of the heart
was that it is as helpless as crushed birds, it lies to itself
because it must, it is a foreign country, like language too is a lie.
You wrote to us about the heart: it one day stops, going so far
as to show us how it does, how it does, what has it done. All heart,
without you, I stop where you left off, the abandoned valley,
the white streets of Greece, or Rome, or the wonderful room
where you watched someone die, I survey the words and agree,
maybe none are enough, none of them will do, but you, sir, are not me.