You’re more silent than hieroglyphs—
as if I’d farted in a sanctuary or you’d misread my mind—
always a fault you were going to find.
I didn’t live up to you, you all too many.
The Greeks would have colored you,
I preferred the color of stone.
It was an honor to serve you
if only to know what I was capable of,
and finally I concluded I was the fault you needed to find.
Yes, I’m nicked to the bone at the loss of you,
but not enough to be angry at you.
