There were knives between us,
bottles and inconvenience: pinches and
bruises, flung coffee and gin
and eyes struck out and wincing retreats.

By Seneca's god it was too hot for words,
and all suspicion,
and all designed
to murder love.

Well, she is gone. Here I remain.
She has her flat and roundfaced lover of books,
mainly I think of Russian.
I have my books,
but no one so incomparably to my taste,
to my taste, my most grievous taste,

Lo, we are bodies looking for souls,
digging for souls. But souls are not within.
We pause and dig again.

But in autumn, out of a fallow summer
when scholars stir, pages begin again to turn
and books turn to being read, there will be her:
A feint image of taxi rides and restaurants,
markets and beds and arguments--
hands raised and kisses spent
and blood spilled in innocence
and accusation. It will be her.