La Belle Dame Sans Merci

by Sabrina Hogan

Certainly the district seagulls
have waited

in vain

for the breadcrumbs that I threw
on your balcony
so that you might hear
even shut away in slumber
their screeching.
Today we miss the date, the both of us
and our breakfast
chills
through stacks of useless books for me
and of relics
for you
that I don’t know: calendars, cases, vials and creams.

Stupefying
your face still persists,
defined
upon the lime depths of the morning;
but a life without wings

doesn’t reach it

and its smothered flame
is the flash
of the lighter,
the match waiting to be struck.