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,

undressing you,

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.