55.

So much depends on the glibness of words,

Sounds of love, professions of the absurd.

That is the trouble when we end in a couplet

The messiness of breath, the spilling over

Of lush bushes on the almost ruined castle

On the Rhône, we always miss the point.

We are always working backward, missing the present,

Thoughts of the future eaten by the past

Before we ever arrive. It’s a little like life

And a love poem: you could do better

But won’t try. That gives me pause, why I bother

When other hands could hold forth. In time

We all limp, the finish line vanishing

Before us, erotic visions agape.