At last we slept,
and in the morning rose
to clear the debris.
I licked my wounds.
It’s just we love
not wisely but too well,
you pleaded,
and recalled that afterwards
we sought redemption,
framed by the fire
inside a kindly room.
We purged our guilt, you said.
I almost screamed.
I never wanted
to be a romantic poet.
Let us recall:
God did not smile again,
there was no sudden
singing in the sky.
We fought, teeth, hair, blood,
the customary scene.
Later I stroked you
till you fell asunder.
Let’s leave out love
and call it plunder:
in the strict sense
surely an indictable offence.
