Dearest.

Forgive me.
I have spilt my coffee
on your working table.

But Mrs. Crestfold was back.
She entered the door
wrapped in harlequin clothes,

danced,
then walked straight to where I sat
whilst I was writing the manuscript for the opera.

From her pocket,
I saw her withdrew
a bowl containing

a freshly cut heart,
buried in ruby
and bricks.

She said it was yours.