The cold wind nuzzles your chin to your chest,
the bells knelling hours to a close, as you
escape the vile memory of Winter for a dim and
lackluster Spring. Your breath smells like gin,
and your eyes sing defeat behind your pride, your
rebellion. Even as you gaze at the newspaper picture
you know you have already lost. Even
as you hold her with trembling hands
you speak of how things will fall down around you.
You are fearful, a simpering, whimpering hero
with overalls hanging about your knees.
Like the black sheep, you huddle amongst the flock,
but you know all too well that the wolf can see you.

Friendly man, with your posturings and packages,
red-kerchief children prancing around your heels,
fixing their fingers in deadly pistols, you
long for the final blows. You stare up at
those all around you, their eyes fixed on the distant
podium where the dark face stands,
embroidered and mustached, the face that you
have so often mistaken for your own.
You gave her over to the rats, in the end,
and the image of her, cheeks and forehead and
eyes all taken apart, like so many pieces of
yourself, still haunts you and plays behind your eyelids.
There is no love there any more, but for that poster-face.

You sit in dark cafes playing at chess,
under the chestnut tree where you gave her away.