36.

Till we fled Calais these two terrains

Were joined, Normandy and Paris at odds,

Thoughts of love between battles, even as we died

Between dynasties. Passing a gymnasium

Named after Descartes, through callow birch,

I find it hard to imagine stripping all down

To ego, to logic in a chimney,

To the difference between estat and estate.

Where does love make its way between abstraction

And ammunition? Those words are so fleet-footed

Spilling over, putting pressure on four letters

As if. Amorous nights in a wasteful

Brevity cannot be bridled

In a syllogism: and your hair.