Love left for another continent
And for weeks, the notebooks have been piling up
On the kitchen table.
Outside the window,
At seven-thirty, the cardinal sings his tune
To remind the world, I assume
That breakfast is overdue.
I’m reading the ABC of Achebe, Bukowski, Camus
Dotting down, in red and blue, sequences of particular musicality.
At sunset, the first glass of wine is exquisite
The second is the name on the label
After that, it’s like doing someone else’s homework.