We had sipped our wine from common cups
And felt the grind of bow on strings
That bind, pull and strain, but never break
-- There is comfort in familiar things.
Comfort too, in the words and skin
Of strange men and women and one-night flings
In betrayals and the haste we make
In cracked mirrors to see our face,
Our fate in broken mirrorings.
Let us go then, you and I
When the evening has stretched out into a sigh
When dusk from death will bring release
-- Scavenging for life in rotting bins
To the mournful snap of violins.