She was the strangest football fan I'd ever met,
Between match programmes and leaflets she hid Nietzsche and Thoreau;
Philosophy being a bright passion of hers,
It all seemed so natural in her visage.
On days, she'd hum You'll Never Walk Alone
While turning delicately the pages of a new text,
Smiling at the words that appeared before her on the page.
Dorian Gray, she took time to point out,
Kept her fascinated—
But it was always going to be Nietzsche,
And the first time she strummed the pages of Thus Spoke Zarathustra it was as if the humming had turned to fire,
And she was melded with the page.
I would believe only in a god who could dance.
If you asked her who she favoured,
she would reply back with a chirp, 
the Russians!
And hold to you a copy of Dostoyevsky,
Crime and Punishment, she said, was her fascination
And she'd as fluidly as ever switch back to the fixtures.
Never passion, always fancy.
It was as if viewing herself through a third party lens.
Her passion for the game,
As mysterious as her gentle touch on softer pages.
How could she love so drastically?
Football, her passion,
But her books were her mystery to all, to even herself,
And the quiet murmur of Nietzsche, her nectar.

712

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity—

It bubbles in my chest,
comes up and gathers in my throat,
and sticks, like molasses.
Silence.
it burns because I can't say anything else
and I want to.
The ice sets my fingers to glass,
and my heart aches
because I know the sharp ***** of betrayal.
I could feel it anywhere.
A smile, hiding a clenched jaw.
I'm okay!
and with each lie it bubbles more.