The music that we listened to One winter evening, lying in bed, Watching an oil lamp leave its sooty Prints on the window (which held a snowed in City in which neither of us now live),

Emptied of desire (for we had attended to it The whole day, since waking), and your Breathing like a tiny luminous flame against The curve of my bare arm,

That music came on again tonight, As I was sitting up reading a book And with the free hand was twisting (No, not your betrayal’s knife deeper!) The radio’s knob, after all these days.

Was this chance? A spin of an Ouija board? Or was it time telling me that it’s time To bravely turn up the volume, and feel The completeness of this silence, Leeched of that desire, that low Lowing for you, and your scorn for both?