When our affair ended
the bed, the linens, the pillows withered
taking our shrill moans with them.
Even the dust on the carpet was still, so quiet
and threadbare—gray where vibrant plush used to be.
I hated to see the wreckage
and I hated to see the termination of our lust.
I hated to see us go.
At the beginning
the weather was good, I remember.
We watched spring birds sing their hearts out
carnal desires investing every note, the way
they darted and hovered, then stuck together,
curving their bodies in joyous tenacity
over and over, as if to test the best angle.
We were no warriors, the way we surrendered
as soon as the weather changed—a rout, our disorderly
retreat. Off we went to our separate lives—leaving
behind a soiled mattress, empties and torn lingerie.
I find no peace
in the awkward way we flew with the first hint of cold
and were gone.