Though once above the boundless seemed to hover,
I’d only wreckage when it did depart:
A cleft disguised by insubstantial cover
To supersede my extirpated part.
That once an autopsy would pray discover
What conjoined vessels had to cleave apart,
And leave the buried pieces to recover
Without assistance of some nobler art
To guide so delicate a hand in finding
Edges where the lovers once were bound,
Imbue in remnants blessed anew a binding
If only matching contours could be found.
What evidence could ever now inspire
The mending of the wound that I desire?