She said: There is more to life than this, move
your hand and let me up. I did, kicked
the wet sheets off and stumped to the bathroom
to brush my gnashing teeth. I am not a violent
man, except when cleaning myself in the light
of a chaste morning.
Last night she said: You think about it too much,
it will make you sick. Years ago my father said:
What will your mother say?
And what they said is true, my hands are hairy
as my father's chest and lust seeps
into the air where I walk, all the people passing
in this small town turn and cover
the noses of the children.
I bow my head: I am a man of passion, guilty
as the day is long, guiltier - this turgid guilt
is more like night, dark and wet and warm
in the breezes of remembered childhood.
There is more to this than life:
in the kitchen I eat figs for breakfast,
strange birds call, hidden in the sky.
Bin Ramke
The Difference between Night and Day, copyright 1978 Yale University Press. Used with permission.
