Somewhere there must be

            A place

            With the certitude of swallows,

            Of trigonometry and first kisses,

            A haven for agnostic silk and

            Casual dismay

            So that the past may merely

            Cast a glow upon the sorrows

            Etched, and choice is meek

            As a respectable snail 

            A place of ease and salve

            That I might count the blows

            Received, and savour every bruise

            As an obliteration of the one 

            I tendered you 

            By pulling back