Distant friends laugh, dust blows, wine pours: they call me.
Such sounds fall from me like the blue of my cloak;
I am only what is present:
A pillar under my elbow, a hand under my chin, a paper fallen to the ground.
I am only what is furthest:
Other eyes dancing, a mind thinking, a pen writing.
I am only what is within:
What the paper has given, its own sun and air.
Richard Blanch
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ephebos/
