She came, she bathed, I asked, “Are you an augury of love? Or love itself?”
At that she laughed, she made a splash. Downstairs a door was cracked and in the sudden draft I saw the legions tramp across her back.
Under glint-eyed standards each man drew and poised to hack with brittle swords or spears or axes flesh sweet and tender, made for kisses, slow hands, trickled water – not for mindless harm, stupid excess.
With that I cupped my hand and swept the scene away. I drowned the legions, all the colors, standards, pikes and horses. Again she laughed.
She said, “I cannot tell the future dear, nor predict it from your fits. Am I an augury of love? Or love itself? Who knows?
Accept the present, dear,
And dear, accept the gift.”