Imagine

He loved her, but he used his love like rope:
Half hitch, slipknot, theif, figure eight, or noose.
Meanwhile, she found a lover who made love
Seem simple, trite, old-fashioned as a rose.

Now see him smash the pictures that she left,
Then glue them back together in his mind—
That cell where he is always in control
To solve, resist, inflict, and yet be kind;

Or torture himself with pictures of their touch,
Or with a frightening hatred freeze them to
Statues on an imperishable bed
He must dishevel, strip, change, make anew,

As if those lovers never tired of lust,
Or held each other with a love
That he, too passionate for ordinary feeling,
Cannot imagine being jealous of.

by Timothy Dekin

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