For the sake of argument pretend
we don't know who they are, this couple,
one on either side of a cast-iron tree

No one misunderstands my satieties
Once they have had at the Caprichos
Without knowing what they are, that they are,

One can, she says, rewrite the story so it
becomes a progress-tale , a Bildungsroman ,
at the end of which our protagonist,

Perhaps, like everything, it has its flow and ebb,
The way nowhere, I mean, your brutal question.
Not that you were asking me. You asked no one

No, I'm not the Austrian—you're confusing me
with Dora—the one who deserted Freud
before he had his chance to perfect her.

Furtive, that's the version I want.
With eyes averted. Downcast, a little sly.
It's where it's looking, that's

In training    He loves pretending he is
A layer of skin    Peeled from Death's moonburnt

Shoulders    Tonight he is resting under

The romance of the twelve-year-old who finds
Himself behind the school in a stingray,
How he's never the same. I had a friend

My dear, you moved so rapidly through my life
I see you as a ghostly blur;
You are the subject, I the ornament

      They are far from shore.
Foam-glittering , they rise from the waves
      in a pure fountain