Swimming down the rustic bay
After leaving you on the city wharf
Between two fjords, and gallantly
Tracing old routes to finer shores.
You'd nearly strangled the heart of men
Living in me—by proxy then—
And stood silently in your loathsome den
With blood on your hands and on the floor.
And meeting you, while on the tram
While on your way to work or home
As supple leaves of maple dance
Ablur on the autumnal cold.
Our Mothers will meet, still once a week
And tearing up napkins; pensively speak
And focus on ebony inlay and teak
And into and through the saucers they hold.
To come back to our humble home
To see your sanguine jubilee
I dove into the stolid water
You jumped in after affably.
