I met a poet made manifest last night
by midnight’s sleepy eyes,
when we forgot not to be ourselves
and asked forbidden questions
to hear the answers from long-time ghosts.
He was in full sorrow,
but, escapingly, more beautiful than weariness.
Each time his eyes grew sad, I wished—
or he laughed blithely at his own quip—
that I was his Bright Star, shining aloft,
not in lone splendour, but
in his always reaching arms.