The fear of wounds is dust now; nothing of it appals me. I’ve learned who keeps me in memory, and how deeply each recalls me. My feet no longer drag me toward the world’s grand show; someone, far from life’s intoxication, calls me. In these trustless days, how could I see you as you are? Restless, I; not even another’s body enthralls me. Your company was an excuse. The greatest fear, of meeting myself, still galls me. Then someone outside applies a cheap balm, and forestalls me.