O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.
–Czeslaw Milosz

Carrying water to the late
lilies from Easter, their flowers

no more than fingers of pearls,
whitely thin and on display,

Ribih and I talked of Milosz’s
“Encounter,” disagreeing

on its need or not need
of some impurity, some tension,

to counter Czeslaw’s sweet acceptance
of death, after being dragged

by his stupid legs through a century
that would be without name.