A consolation



(for Claudia)

if that damn contingent day always does it, and lets light drip
  unequally (on bud & weed); and an eastside

poet, hunched over his angel, isn't always a guide to the world
  like stars ought, then let us see dearer things:

 at least,  you and I can and do

 value to its true heart and call better (as it's right always we can)
  the pain of love and end of a favourite work,

and among living things a language that's written with difficulty
  (paradisal in which you have always suffered!)


Not surprising, eh and highest among the order of angelic things
  is that I like to see you as clear melody and never

 ceasing to be root and branch or art in which two children grow
   (as poet-father had taught you to grow & sing)

   And  you and I have also learnt,

to love the discarded (mismatched) angel wings because these, dear,
  will give us always our best, brightest tragic suns