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Click hereA little plot in Göttingen, where a red spire of stone
Rises from the wildflowers, the mounded grass
Mown close to the sweet earth.
There would he stand, a distant, solitary shape
In the deep shade of summer, far out of the heavy light
Of examination, embarrassed and crisp
In his new conscience, grateful for the guidance
Of the dead lover who had outlived him.
She painted grace onto several men
During their encounters, many of these now also dead,
But her moisture had merely beaded
On their featureless surface
As if their skin were finely oiled by convention
Or ordinary fears. The tall figure under the trees
Had been well soaked
In the luxury of her focused compassion,
Why he alone of all could still be seen
So many years later.
But he had nothing to give back to her except quiet,
Which was already hers,
And respect,
Which was already hers, and the long grief of regret
Which was his, but was nothing
She could ever have wanted.
There's not much I can add except maybe (this is a tentative opinion) that you need to watch the creep of the wanton use of adjectives.
This has the wow factor for me, beautiful words and I love the ending
and, as such, well-suited to its setting.
i enjoy your use of breaks to create that space between words, stretch a thought, make it contemplative, just as the figure standing "in the deep shade of summer, far out of the heavy light of examination, embarrassed and crisp in his new conscience" is contemplative. WHAT a fabulous phrase. well, it is in my books, anyway. :) to wear his conscience like a slightly stiff, not-yet-used-to shirt or suit .. you made me look at that, feel it, very closely.
other phrases such as "she painted grace onto several men" and "But her moisture had merely beaded/ on their featureless surface/ as if their skin were finely oiled by convention/ or ordinary fears" leave me feeling enriched for their reading.
your pacing is, imo, exquisite. this has already been recommended by 1201, but i wouldn't hesitate to second and even third that.