A Faint Voice Drawled

Every night, wrists torn, he struggles. Pulled and pinched, until he sees without a word or a sign That there is something broken in her. In the early hours of every day amidst mute, stupefied faces His head drops, horrified at his own fury. In the dark She turns and walks down the path, sobbing draughts of air. By her side, fallen to pieces momentarily, he touches her arm. For an instant, in his mind, there is no motion in their equilibrium. Her stomach is rigid, his hands cold. Alone now he remembers something worse than misery And cries, his broad shoulders bend to the ground - A huge factory chimney trembling in the middle of a dead town, Swaying before it learns to fall. He returns to their room, aware That time has become something different, and yet To him, there was nothing rude or untidy there. He looks over the railings. Bows, smiles, offers. On his last afternoon they had walked on clearly defined sides, His intentions a cold feast of snow, ugly and bleak. She broke off and they were both silent. Then she kissed him until the sky seemed to fade And her tears seemed to vanish.