Rosalind Eyre
Applying the Many Worlds Hypothesis
It will be that same oppressive August night.
You will watch me move, my shorts tight, cut high.
You will be bra-less, your dress loose, low-cut,
worn not for me but because of the heat.
If I touch your hand or clothes it will be accidental,
unacknowledged beyond our first, ironic, smile.
Stirred by the same warm breeze, the wind-chimes will not conspire
with the Chopin, the Merlot, your smile, to make me think I love her.
You will not chase the candle-seeking moth,
cage it in your hands. Mine will not then encircle both.
At eleven you will be sensible, plead an early train,
turn at the door, kiss me, pull back, both our faces stunned.
Page(s) 18
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