Obvious

“I don’t like sex,” you offered in reply
To my importunate longing, and woe.
It was the way you’d chosen to say No,
And made completely clear your reason why.
With an eternal something in my eye,
Maybe a grain of sand, I let it go,
Taking my leave. I’m silent and I’m slow,
Which isn’t how I ought to say good-bye.

At least I wasn’t silent and so fast
You didn’t understand that I’d be gone
Once the door closed. That I was moving on
Should have been obvious. It didn’t last,
But yes, I loved you. That’s all in the past:
You knew that, certainly. Is that a yawn?

A Cold Wind

I know you like to call these stories fictions,
But let’s not lie about lies. When you start,
It puts more undue pressure on my heart,
Which only adds to my other afflictions,
Including heart contractions and constrictions,
Decay and darkness, things falling apart.
Granting exceptions for truth, love, and art,
I’ve overcome the rest of my addictions.

The stories I call fiction are all true —
Not necessarily a useful choice,
But often just the best that I could do —
While not one single word of yours springs forth
To make things clear. It seems to me your voice
Is like a cold wind, blowing from the north.

I’ve Been Enchanted

I’ve been enchanted by the untamed scene
Next door: the trees, the cries. I’ve been enchanted
By my own garden, randomly replanted.
I’ve been enchanted by the new machine,
The new intensity I feel. I’ve been
Enchanted by the mercy I was granted
And the sun’s rays so casually slanted,
Flickering through the bushes, tinted green.

Unloved reality, brought home to me
By leaves and weeping in my neighbour’s yard,
Reminds me that when I’ve been on my guard
Nothing, not mercy, not intensity,
Nothing will let me live a fantasy.
I’m disenchanted now. Yes; that was hard.