Without the hope of love around
she felt herself bound
one more time.
And she could feel it happening, and she could
sense it encroaching.
And the man she’d fallen so in love with
had simply dismissed her as
empty box of
fine; but now
cracked and stale
and leaking sticky stuff.
And so nothing now was quite enough for her
want to terribly
that awful button on
“Without love, without even simply its hope,
we are nothing;
there is nothing;
there is really no road.”
And from the splendour and wonder
of that recent learning right fine,
the loveless man who’d won her heart
on that glorious Bloomsday
had just succeeded where others had failed:
he’d finally ripped and torn her apart.
And from this,
by now five times experienced moment,
she would never
manage to return.