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?