“Inconstancy was forever part of me”,
I said to a betrayed and angry lover;
“my mind is a child of disorder,
destroying most when I want to be kind.
How could I offend you, the piercer of that blindness
in which I grope in the shadows
of half remembered eyes and bodies?”

But can I truly apologise or forget the seeds,
the doubts distilled from other loves,
those pigments with which my brain
paints and distorts your image.

Is it here, with this shocked lover,
I should dispose my sexual bones
if they dance no longer?