( after T.S. Eliot )
A literary man of books,
I’d taken her as a lover.
Then yesterday I felt it time
To break it off for another.
The tables of my plan, on me
Have turned the way that she is done.
To moving on, ideal and pure;
I cannot change, or sully her.
Her bare feet trip lightly across
The balcony in early morn’,
Where no sun’s heated flush had yet
Graced patio of Venus’ breath.
To this reflection, heart and soul,
In spite of everything I weave,
She in her diaphanous glow
When my intent had been to leave.
Aroused in pagan celebrate
For having known of her like this.
Not having slept through any part
To what was my defeated night.
I am a slave of memories
To a girl with sun in her hair.
A shadow matching every step
To forget I was ever there.