We start. This opening coda introduces
a fitful world of characters who, dance
or dawdle, still fall over, make excuses:
'her, the other fool, mere happenstance.'
Or so it seems in reminiscence: time
that was so prodigal, so cosseting,
takes no more care of us than midnight's chime
of old year's ending changes anything.
(Not an image, that, to shed much light,
but here we call for coats and bid goodnight.)
So to our story, which has started well.
There is no better way, as you'll agree,
than have whole days together's work compel
these two still touring on in Italy
for churches, galleries, good food and space
to stop and think about each other, let
the unmapped evening hold their pulse's race
to what might happen after dinner. Yet
that passed, then drinks, without sulk or glooms,
it was a smile and kiss to separate rooms.
You say that's sad. No doubt it is, but I
in looking backwards now am not so sure.
Events have their denouements, and if they lie
as dead as dodos then a short downpour
of hurt or hope makes good the wait. Be
A little patient, therefore, nothing's certain.
The world's a pantomime, a comedy
in making. Doubtless if you find the curtain
ups and downs distracting, so do I, —
and will say so, roundly, by and by.