He is not here, you who
See by pink and little light,
His clothes therein discarded, limp—
A smirking stranger too, in white.
He is not here, the eye
Confirms what happened by the night;
The heart however galloping
And speaking without words takes flight.
He is not here, the first
To break the spell of sleep, with bright
Contortions morning tries and comes
And turns to fools the erudite.
He is not here, and yet
He is, incredulous by lens and sight;
He is not here—alas,
He is out bringing low the high and might.
Impolitic 