She sees no rendition of the former past midnight for incoming Rome

a proximity fuse among falling out threads like sky maps awake for
Cat Clyde and harmony of tired servitude recorded four thousand years ago
in caves of stern relationships and high branches that men tread with falsetto horses
and obliquely fastened calves on tips of rumors of incoming Rome, like perfume,
lasting in tired lights between rockways and low trees that were intended for just
that one evening, you and I, they and them, one and another, each couple, with mete out
arrangements for the one left behind never knowing the bliss they found in being better off
having missed out of those kisses and courtships, never knowing, it was far better
to scribble in a cave and not know the passing of the heart into the interior motive of defeat