Strawberries in the Snow

by Loic Desplanques

This ‘kerchief, as it brushes by my mouth,
Is stained with such bright wounds, gashes of red.
My eyes’ enshadowed moats (though flowing south)
I’’ll leave, in case he turns his marbled head
And sees that they, unpainted, are not deep.
The patriarchal clock is bolt erect,
The plump and warming chair beneath him sleeps,
And yet, his eyes take such care to neglect
The ice-cubed artemission that is me.
Though I be trapped in cauterising glare,
To taste his eyes, I’’m sure, would cut me free.
And he? He sits, and writes, is unaware.
We have not fought, so why are we alone?
My god! This cloth is heavy as a stone.