Skipped the next one there, "Fernand Khnopff."
Now go to page 5.
Whenever any relationship between two people breaks up,
there's always a parceling out--
the portioning out of fault. As you can see,
this poem is about my fault here.
This is why the relationship could no longer go on.
I take the blame and I confess why here.
And it starts out where all exhausted
lovers want to find themselves.
At 6:00 AM, the clock hands clothespins of nakedness.
Is it turn for your shadow to be the son's birth mark or mine?
We lie in the ruins, the pertains
of all we sought to evade by touch, avoid by sight.
Now we argue over which criteria gravity
uses to select its victims.
Why, why weigh the impact of our caresses
upon this bed till they fade, svelte as a thumbs down swan?
Only the sun rises at random.
At moot point, we lie.
The rain wearing black armbands may pass.
I dab my smile at the mournersby.
I dab my heart at you.
As for the blame, I'll take it.
I was naked there where we were.
I was naked, but my clothes were stuck in my throat,
thereby rendering my nakedness ineffectual or perhaps
spurious.
And I would have said something to save
the situation at this point.
I would have whispered something, Darling.
But there was this darn zipper right up against my voice box.
It's hard to be naked when your clothes get
stuck in your throat.