The Imperial Ambassador
           of the Infinite

One August afternoon
he came back, after thirty years,
and they stood in the garden briefly,
no more than twenty minutes.
We know she shaded her eyes
with her hand, because someone saw her.
He held his hat in his.
We know not what they said
and I never think of it, except
when I see the windshield of a car
smashed in the street, its silver
loosed like the sea itself.
Except when I run away from home
by hiding under the bed.
Except when I think being alone
hasn’t been invented yet,
except for the mirror,
and there there are two too, 
standing cold and damaged and drenched
in their own awkwardness,
which is the awkwardness of Mercury
bringing a message to himself
(after so many years!), and except
when I see the bee,
stoned out of his mind,
leaving the flower forever.