In (“dignity”)

I embrace you with my

sense of in-

dig-

nitty, gritted like concrete

boots you have made 

me wear as a sentence 

to close my hope

down 

in jail of senses and sites and

wasted years of incapacity

both.

Only you have achieved, lived,

flourished and

flowered, whilst I have worn

away my present, as one

turning over in sleep 

does

two

the other: and how often has

the latter hatterly 

madly to me in my life.

Yes. 

I now fully understand my

solitary state: neither 

evil nor benevo-

lent: just ever-

pre-

scented by the trail of

your skin: and now I am in, it is

clear you are off-

limits for everything 

my being

in – as it is –

did hope for, and profess,

and unwisely guess.

And so I guess we part uneasily,

then.  You, in your careful in-

decision; me, in my in-

sis-

ten-

t in-

digni-

ties.

No embrace of ro-

man-

sing-

ing:

just goodbye-

ing I see: be good if you 

can, for no more in future from 

me shall you here.

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