Here, in the corridor of a dingy auberge
where you lost your sister’s ring,
I will find for you a world
of foreign, simple, dying things,
eternities in one-night flings;
a love too great for dawn.
For we are pawners of the absurd,
my words and I – without flight,
yet we fly,
weaving webs in the night,
caressing your thighs.
It was only when the bellhop hit the light
that in truth we met, and I saw you right.
You, I see now, are still fully clothed,
and watch me scrambling for my robes.