#56

One mustn’t linger long in rain. Limber sapling that I am. She climbs – leg over leg – to meet him at the balustrade. Gray and wet and breathless. The delight of the eyes, rampart of memory. Tweed jacket, scraggy jaw. Polyphemus on the landing. Nose to nose. And a tooth for a tooth. The coupler’s will. Veil of mist, pneumatic grasp. I am a stripling, with soft hair and a languishing gaze. A scrag beneath the sky of dripping slat. Horizontal downpour. And no gamey gamp in hand. Tomorrow, she said, rehearse.