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Show VII. I t stands close and holds the air- the empty house, half-empty; you. Gone a week and the shore s t i l l gleams like stainless s t e e l , the bougainvillea slow-burns as usual and gulls wade out into the quiet air as evening comes, passes, each day with the same verdict: I stood by indifferently and watched you leave. I t would have been better not to ask; and leave us foundering on our own sides. I t i s n ' t like that now. The lamps are on, the window is black and my face i s f i l l i n g up the glass, in your voice, a proper love, I hurt you home. VIII. Daily we wrote and quarreled through the mails, two thousand miles apart- for Art, you documented each your pornographic dreams, no spared undone detail...This is no brag, there was a colder loneliness I heard described by Celine, but his involved the world...mine was all you, My hand at letters vanished fast. Marvel and observation gave way to more orthodox I long- and long my protests; malice licked each stamp that posted my complaint: the months fail miserably this way. |
