CAN  you  see  me,  Sasha? 

I  can  see  you.  .  .  . 
A  tentacle  of  the  vast  dawn  is  resting  on  your  face that  floats  as  though  detached 
in  a  sultry  and  greenish  vapor. 
I  cannot  reach  my  hands  to  you  .  .  . 
would  not  if  I  could, 
though  I  know  how  warmly  yours  would  close  about them. 

Why? 

I  do  not  know  .  .  . 
I  have  a  sense  of  shame. 
Your  eyes  hurt  me  .  .  .  
mysterious  openings  in  the  gray stone  of  your  face 
through  which  your  spirit  streams  out  taut  as  a  flag 
bearing  strange  symbols  to  the  new  dawn. 

If  I  stay  .  .  .  
projected,  trembling  against  these  bars  filtering  emaciated  light  .  .  . 
will  your  eyes  .  .  .  
that  bore  their  lonely  way  through  mine  .  .  . 
stop  as  at  a  friendly  gate  .  .  . 
grow  warm  .  .  .  
and  luminous? 

.  .  .  but  I  cannot  stay  .  .  .  for  the  smell  .  .  . 

I  know  .  .  .  how  the  days  pass  .  .  . 
The  prison  squats with  granite  haunches on  the  young  spring, 
battened  under  with  its  twisting  green  .  .  . 
and  you  .  .  .  
socket  for  every  bolt 
piercing  like  a  driven  nail. 
Eyes  stare  you  through  the  bars  .  .  . 
eyes  blank  as  a  graveled  yard  .  .  . 
and  the  silence  shuffles  heavy  dice  of  feet  in  iron  corridors  .  .  . 
until  the  day  .  .  .  
that  has  soiled  herself  in  this  black hole 
to  caress  the  pale  mask  of  your  face  .  .  . 
withdraws  the  last  wizened  ray 
to  wash  in  the  infinite 
her  discolored  hands. 

Can  you  hear  me,  Sasha, 

in  your  surrounded  darkness?