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Nostalgia needs time,
People and a place—the proximity
Of her to the inlets and bays
And the trains that shoot past,
The cavernous central station
Where we bought coffee among crowds,
The inlets and bays where I live,
She, close by, a literary wife,
An inlet away, far enough to miss,
Sweetly taking over my life.
This went on for years,
Until she insulted me—I was weeping—
And I’m not a man for tears.
Sex belongs to something different,
Things hidden; the sex parts do not see
Visible things which breed nostalgia,
The scenery we know. In the dark
We clutch intimacy. Sex
Is not the same thing as sitting in the park.
Nostalgia is the bitter secret. Nostalgia. That’s why
Love happens. The memory of the mind’s eye
Knew it among the hills immediately.
