“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?


I leave you, standing just
outside the door, a renaissance untouched.
Leaning (to be filled?) you turn.

Your eyes, becoming
modest, lower now.
(suggesting invitation?)

That flame upturning
cooled affection’s smile
stalks my thief, desire,

but civility
rules our day; banality
confines our conversation.