1

How we happened to be both human,
Of the material of the machine . . .

The one original substance is one.
Two is two's destruction.
But love is the single word wherein
The double murder of the machine
Is denied
In one suicide . . .

Long very long ago,
A time unthinkable,
We loved each other.

Greet an old doubt
With contemporary conviction —
Lest going you give me lovelessness
And the accursed courage for a close.

2

Did I surprise too truly, then,
Your all too prompt anticipation,
Tear down the wall of self,
Expose the terror of fulfilment?

As from a balcony,
Applaud the way I build the wall again.

3

The requisite spot of anguish having shown
Upon my cheek the growth of the disease
From the internal infection of the bone
To the full epidermal fever, please
Proceed as you intended, in the tone
With which your parting sonnet tried to freeze
My too unliterary passion to stone.

Though love is not yet dead, your lyric crow,
Smelling the near-corruption, may come and perch
In antecedent mourning, not to sing
But consecrate to your pedantic church
His ultra-polite yet energetic wing
That flaps your piety incognito.

4

The cycle of revenge comes round,
Your expiation ties in me.

Mercy, mercy for me
Who would only suffer,
Who would never sin.
The righteous are transfixed
While sinners are swept round to judgement.
Mercy, mercy for me where I stand
A bigot of forgiveness.