Her Glories

A thousand battered books, also two gross
Of broken statues, Mozart on the spinet,
That’s what I have left, up to this minute,
And it will have to do. She’s comatose,
The nurse is set to push another dose
Of meds derived once from the common linnet.
You said, Give up verse, boy, there's nothing in it,
But, heavens, how I used to hold her close!

I stayed too long, and now I hate the smells,
The scattered noises, and the endless snow.
No one remembers anything but woe:
The glamour and the poisoning of wells.
Do you find harlots cheaper than hotels?
Should I admit it’s over, and let go?