He is bathed in the gold of military regalia
He carries a wrapped club
While she dims in the distance
A body bisected to accommodate
The dimensions of a public room
And the butt end of a gun is
Splashed across her painted gown
It is equally possible that he sees
And that he does not see her face
Each varnished page he’s painted
Falls open to the past and years
Of storm have come between them
She was always the one
With the breakable arms
The scrubbed Delft face
Hope draped stupidly like
Twenty years of Courtauld crepe
Over hair and mouth and shoulders
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