At the beginning

            I lifted the stones in the standing pool of your wordless grace

            When I thought you weren’t looking

 

            And tracked your pupils when I nudged you casually into the past

            Wincing as they flew at times askance

 

            I measured the beats between our kisses

            Always worrying about the music you’d made with others.

            Then I scoured your favourite books for clues and found

 

                   Older men who had ruined themselves for girls,

                   Younger men who drowned;

                   Boisterous guerrilla poets who shared their women

                   And attacked each other over style;

                   Lovers who evaporated or united on the wings of a whim . . .

 

            The wet streets glistened amber under the lights

            As the cold moved in

            And during the vast middle silence of

            My coffee hours before the dawn

            I lined up the vectors and packed my bags

 

            It was a long long time before I realised we’d been fashioning a narrative anew

 

            And far too late to turn back