It was callous, careless
To bring naked flame so close to home,
Therefore
You have laid big brutish hands
In a big way, brutishly.
He, a titan
(who once confessed he loved me)
I did not think given to weeping,
And as a wounded pigeon,
Saved by a pale princess,
The pain is in his coos:
“She may taste like November and December,
But I look like forever.”
I sit, watching, on the stone steps by a busy road
And I hear you do
A terrible, selfish thing.
And like a road traffic accident
I hear silence in the scream.
