You close your eyes To two bodies: yours and hers.

You are lying below, a cold trestle Against which she is beating herself Almost as if she was hammering against A fire door, watching the red exit sign vanish in the smoke. This is when your

Passion disappears. It is replaced first By pity, followed by loathing and then Always at the end, fear. You turn around And see that the theatre, in which you Were seated next door, has also caught fire! Crowds are rushing out, you make to Hold on, you hold her breasts,

As you come, come hurtling out Into a long night of lamenting.