In Your Darkness

you could not locate me, though I believed I was
	singing my coordinates to you each day, each night.

In the compound of our love, I wandered
	down corridors and through empty living

rooms, past sun porches and across dark terraces, 
	until, one dusky afternoon, I stumbled on a storeroom filled 

with gin, cases of warm whiskey, beer in kegs and bottles and cans. 

And there I lingered, drowned the singing, clasped my own 
	bell’s tongue and silenced it at last.

I am sorry, love. Forgive me.
	Whiskey makes a poor 

companion, but a companion,
	still.

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