There are gaps in memory -- cataracts | In the eyes: seven veils. | I can't picture you distinct from others. | In place of details -- a white distress. |  | Without features. A pallid emptiness -- | Complete. (The soul replete with wounds -- just | One big wound.) To mark the cuts with chalk | is for a tailor, or seamstress. |  | The firmament -- is one whole heaven. | Is the ocean -- just a crowd of waves?! | Without features. Everything -- perfect -- in its place. | Love is -- connection, not dissection. |  | Raven-haired, or chestnut-maned? -- | He has eyes to see: ask a neighbor. | Should passion take things into bits? | Am I a watchmaker, or doctor? |  | You're like a circle, whole and undivided: | A whirlwind entire, a complete paralysis. | And I can't think of you apart | From love. An exact equivalence. |  | (In heaps of dreamy down: | A waterfall, hills of foam -- | A new thing, strange to the ear, | Instead of "I" -- a royal "we...") |  | But then, in this cramped and destitute | Existence: "Life as it is -- and will be" -- | I can't see you with another: | -- Revenge of memory!