Mon cher Emile

Far, far from the Eagle's perch
Between cragged rocks
And beating waters
There is
An imperceptible unclenching
A leisurely unclasping
A fist first
A locket last

All of it
Noiseless drama
In a grey-mirrored theatre

Summer, mon cher, rains on Wintered moorings
And the difference is known only within.

"Emile. There it is; his name...But that's not it. Not at all. This is how it was."
Sylvia Plath