Little by little you abandoned me over the years:

in the small things of life;

in the things of may and might.

And maybe in the end,

or maybe not so late

I already did abandon you myself.

And the kind of abandon 

I actually wanted from you was the sexual

pleasure of interfering grace;

of the intertwining body at the most awkward of times;

out of time and

out of place – that race to make of early

morning treasure 

a pleasure-

grounding to start – that fab! – the day 

right off, and 

off with your clothes: the jammy jammies 

sleeping slipped.

And if that night and if that ray of yellow sunshine

which lines your face

could one day say to me “I love you!” …

… then every time I touched rock bottom,

you’d find yourself, my hand in

yours; and every time you felt so deep,

so love would seep from all my poors, and nothing – but

nothing! could stop our when.

And this is the abandon

I promise you, dear C: not the one I have suffered 

a whole 

life of untrue 

but a better thing than ever was wrought – the love of 

being, and saids, 

and sought.

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