Astonished and made clumsy 
And faltering too often, 
The poet tires of these long 
Evenings of Chopin, Verlaine, 
And weird games upon the floor 
Where the law of averages 
Is consistently disproved.
 
Strange to think the girls I knew 
Are ladies now, and carrying 
Some small immortal baggage 
Inside, flickering with life. 
Crouching. Unsullied. With stumps 
For legs and eye like a fish. 
Sounds for all the world like love.
 
And I still in a rented room, 
Drenched with all this literature 
Which pumps me full of wild beliefs 
And the ability to squabble, 
Dare to wish I might have come 
And spilt my warmth into your life. 
And you smelling of babies.
 
Already the wind begins 
To creep through the heavy trees. 
The sunlight rummages across 
Some dull promontory where 
It is squandered and rubbed out. 
The poet tires of these long 
Evenings demanding nothing.