I made a house of houselessness,
a garden of your going:
and seven trees of seven wounds
you gave me, all unknowing;
I made a feast of golden grief
that you so lordly left me,
I made a bed of all the smiles
whereof your lip bereft me:
I made a sun of your delay,
your daily loss, his setting:
I made a wall of all your words
and a lock of your forgetting.