Now that our affair is over,
and the mournful memory of our affair is over,
all I do is ponder your name.
You might be a god—
in a mythology book.
In the myth, what did the god do?
Was she psychologically true?
No longer moved by passion or blame,
we think of others,
in these our forgetful lives;
we were just more errors made
by mismatched husbands and wives—
and mismatched ourselves,
your motive buried in a mood.
As friends: tasteful observations of hands.
I think coldly, now, on the affair,
one that began with arms:
noticing the barely perceptible hair.