A Narrow World . . .

A narrow world to a stranger's eyes, and to mine: Expanse of wrinkled sheets, impassioned breath (Somehow the bedroom ended here, and fine Enough; the rented furnishings were sad), The weary living room, quiet for death, Except sometimes we played a hot, mad Record and cavorted in the skin. Add bathroom, kitchen; all of the world we were in.

Narrow, yes. But wide enough, and full (Of vulgar lamps, wall paper pushing in) Of Empire high romance, sweet sounds made small; And we were what we were and where we met. Reason was an alien, and sin Somebody we forgot we ever met. Amoral as two pigeons with shut eyes, We swallowed poppy seeds to grow our lies.

The quiet voice—no louder than before— That played like hands over a man's bare chest, The voice went scratching on the skin, even more Than had it not touched love off in the dark. No queen were you, no king was I, the rest, Our world, went gray as the windows and just as stark. We began to dress, stood in our underwear, Asked "Who are you? gracious not to stare."