Sixty years after
In my wheelchair in the Virgin longue at Vieuxfort
I saw, sitting in her own wheelchair, her beauty
hunched like a crampled flower, the one whom I thought
as the fire of my young life would do her duty
to be golden and beautiful and young forever
even as I aged. She was treble - chinned, old, her
devastating
smile was netted in wrinkles, but I felt the fever
briefly returning as we sat there, crippled, hating
time and the lies of general pleasantries.
Small waves still brake against the small stone pier
where a boatman left me in the orange peace
of dusk, a half - century ago, maybe happier
being erect, she like a deer in her shyness, I stalking
an impossible consummation; those who knew us
knew we would never be together , at least not walking.
Now the silent knives from the intercom went through us.
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