Two Poems

Her Embroideries

He was the shadow of the deep bed.
He was very beautiful, and as always
there was something perfect,
as though I were his cousin.
On the map he had shown me
a forest, but there was no such forest,
hence the lies, the discomfiture,
and the rest - the barracks, steeped
in the odours of freshly ploughed
earth; shops rife with Trieste dialect.
And his messages ended with vows
like, 'Believe me, I am always
at your side.' It is impossible
to relate what or how he played,
the sudden modulations that
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