html website builder

Fogged windows on this autumn afternoon
impede the view of those who pass by boat
while languidly from habit we embrace,
perform the parts of lovers that we were.


The modish magazine that likes to write
about my darling’s clothes and latest show
engages her attention as I feel
my way along the boredom of her cheek.


Small darkness there: a shadow, or a tear?
My free hand tears the fashion page in half.
She purrs on cue and sloughs her Calvin vest,
upsets my glass of reasonable rosé.


Across the surface of the broad canal
I see a certain curtain blow; reflect
how her third husband winces when our steam
obscures his jaundiced but still wished-for view.


My second wife, if back today from Cannes,
will sit there too (that’s been their flat six months),
gaze out from that four-meter-ceiling room.
Will she remember loving here with me?