“After all, we are not gypsies
living in a green wagon…” Thomas Mann, Tonio Kröger
Shall I leave you when I wake
to gather up my clothes
and the obligation of another day?
I might contrive to speak
an art around such quick departure,
or smile as if I knew a thing at all.
The heart remains.
A door divides
rooms and loyalties. Just so.
Your eyes are closed to me,
to day, to thought, but in the night
they opened black a universe of joy.
Your arm rests on mine;
your left leg angles over my right.
Shall I wake you when I leave?