A madness shared by two

Folie a Deux

They call it pica

this ranging after alien tastes:

acorns (the good fresh country food,

better than I've remembered)

that morning in the wood,


and moonlit roses-

perfumed lettuce, rather unpleasant:

we rinsed them from our teeth with wine.

it seemed a shared perversion,

not just a kink of mine-


you were the one

who nibbled the chrysanthemums.

Allright we are avoiding something.

Tonight you are here early.

We seem to lack nothing.


We are alone,

quiet, unhurried. The whisky has

a smoky tang, like dark chocolate

you speak of ceremony, of

something to celebrate.


I hear the church bells

and suddenly fear the blasphemy,

even name it. The world's unusual

between us. But you don't laugh.

We postpone our ritual.


and act another:

sit face to face across the table

talk about places we have known

and friends who are still alive

and poems (not our own)


It works. We are altered

from that fey couple who talked out

fountains of images, spray

of loves, deaths, dramas, jokes:

their histories; who lay


manic with words.

fingers twined in each other's hair

(no closer) wasting nights and hours;

who chewed, as dry placebos

those bitter seeds and flowers.


It is the moment.

We rise and touch at last. And now

without pretence or argument.

fasting, and in our right minds,

go to our sacrament.

*
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