Sunday Poem

LATE LOVE POEM 

Well. Here we are. Where we have always been,
of course; and sometimes recognized as such.
I wonder that the cosmos can survive
the theme and variation of your touch. 

Well, there you go, where we have never gone:
off course, but something understood at last.
I doubt that even God remembers, Dear,
the paths that we have scrambled in the past.

Well this is it. At least we think it is,
or may have been, or may be at the close
of any narrative of passion and reprieve.
My God you are redemptive in repose!

Well. Just as well. The others never got
beyond the starting gate; and if they won
the velvet pisspot, with rosette, so what?
By God Sweetheart you always jumped the gun!

Well that is that. Finito. QED.
Wrapped up in greaseproof paper. That's show biz:
"Styx nix hix pix." Okay, I know it ain't
all over till it's over. Then it is.

Well, what the Hell. Or Heaven. Which is where
we came in Love and which is where we leave.
Earth to earth, the sure and certain earth,
earth Incorruptible. I shall not grieve.

From Where The Nights Are Twice As Long (Goose Lane, ed. by David Eso and Jeanette Lynes) by Richard Outram

(Illustration by Pedro Pezte)