Melancholia
In the amber shadow-and-sway of the oil lamp
she is less than beautiful
as she leans forward biting her lip,
scratching her knee.
Because he has not told her the truth
exactly, he makes his fingers
skim up and down her back, then turns
to kiss her shoulder.
For some minutes he feels ashamed.
Through the half-shut window, a smell
of overripe apples drifts from crates
piled in the street.
He blows out the lamp but, unlike her,
does not sleep. He imagines
gently holding a nettle against her cheek.
