I let my wife have an affair. Do
I have to console her now that it’s over?
Herd my hurt feelings as cows to a rambling drover
and lead them in the slaughter season to the final moo?
Do I borrow smiles for these blues?
The heart’s the heart: what once was bed of clover
bathed in picnic light became a rover—
returns: from forlorn three, unhappy two,
would that there were some Heathcliff on the moor,
howling each knocking night, but there is not:
we’re all that’s left of the isosceles,
an unpaired angle, open-ended, or
a bad choice which worse outcome bought:
the worst of all the world’s monogamies.