I didn’t love him then, and I don’t yet,
for I am so protective and resolved
that I’ll be warm as love, but I won’t let
my selfish heart be suitably involved.

“You never love your lover,” says my friend,
who stands so close she disinters my fears,
interpreting the purpose I intend
and brushing off the salt and sand of years.

The birds of dream in tight formation fly
and clouds become the pigment of the breeze.
A new Tiresias divines the sky
with sightless eyes, a new Cassandra sees
enough to know her words will be ignored,
and still makes prophecies to no reward.