With drags of cloves and wintry breaths,
He spoke of love; I spoke of death.
The cab pulled up; the gray slush spilled.
He went that day; our love was killed.
Time twisted through us like a vine.
Delay took root as loss entwined
and bound me in its thorny chill.
He went away; my love was killed.
The Amherst ponds were slick with ice,
as winter clamped down like a vise.
My long complaints became distilled:
"He went away. Our love was killed."
The winter bled away, and spring
came raining in on robins' wings.
Though all around me felt the thrill,
he'd been away; my love was killed.
And still I watch from two floors high,
as life floats up into the sky.
I feel no joy; my heart is still.
He's gone away; my love is killed.
With dregs of thought and weakened breath,
I know no love, and write on death.
It can't fill holes that spite has drilled.
He left the day my love was killed.