Of course, my timepiece was made out of scissors
         and you cut the hands with still
         more hands.

You knew I was hankering for a pale rose or a nose-
         gay to stitch along a minor work of Pliny*
         at, say, dusk?

Of course, silly me, my recollection sulked like some
         ruined manor of the loved, the lost—
         nowhere to despair itself, no sycophant
         to read the thing.

Of course.

         But I should have known that
         in the biblio
         the tomes were tasseled open,
         the air assiduous and stern.

You had read both versions
         of some accidental classic,
         finding both unsatisfactory,
         a view that was itself
         unsatisfactory.

Of course, you hadn’t really read them,
         I know,
         because another page in another book
         was eared, spotted with your breath.

Of course, it had been rank,
         rank as the foul air from the jaws of Dracule,
         whom women found, if I may, irresistible.

 

* The Elder, Gaius Plinius Secundus.