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Love is a broken heart, and then, revenge,
Or, what some call healing:
The Bach, then the Brahms, lullaby, in hope of getting rest,
The lifting of the veil of pathos to reveal each separate, tiny guest.
No, no, it’s revenge.
Love. It has nothing to do with whether the other
Knows what you are thinking or feeling.
Mental or emotional impairment of a subtle kind
Haunts it—even as it might be invisible to me,
A waste, those shiny jokes, that flight inside the sanctuary,
So later I am thinking, was she a catatonic schizophrenic?
Was she? Could she have been? Or am I just losing my mind?
But it doesn’t matter that much, that part,
The broken heart of misunderstanding, which afflicts all parts of the brain,
The lungs, the blood, the face, but mostly the fearful, thumping, heart.
The revenge part is what is particularly interesting to me.
This is when lovers, for the first time, communicate:
The interesting parts of Modern and pre-Modern philosophy,
Physicians trained in dreams, laughing at us with a test,
Cows, chopped in half, which end up at the Tate,
A small breakfast, alone, made by her, in brutalist architecture expressed,
An afternoon of you, concentrating, as you make somebody wait,
An afternoon of muffin and marmalade—or was it jelly?
Darkness outside the windows. A book of poetry by Shelley.