a woman who hesitates is lost.

she loved with a skim of ice, with tears
in her hands, as if she had never really
existed or been cast ashore. she went
and came like an animal, an old woman
alone, burning your ships.

her strength was not a fit of laughter,
a mask to conceal what we call life;
it was a place of retreat, a war attended
by the increasing infirmities of all
your philanderings and the wild
gambols of isolated promises.

far different were the remnants of
the night, owned by the gloomy walls
and the secrets of what you have been.