Something has to suit this, and suit it well.
I remember us courting in the snow-
black; the fields rounded with bosom swell
and stupid with charm, fell back on a throw
sat between us, shivering like fog.
Poor Jude (I mean "I" of course, how silly!),
sat between a mason's hearth and home, and clogged
to the gills with erotolepsy.
Ah. Such are the things that cannot be.
You run to the harbour, lover, and plug
our last goodbyes with letters and vagaries
(if anything near us had ever been "love")
Enjoy crossing, my dear, as static still
extinguish our candle (the light that was killed)