Kings Parade with a Dear Friend

By the end of the evening, on a captive hour

You sprang a trap, all of yourself on me:

“And what if I behave a certain way?

And what if I don’t act on what you say?”

Spoken like a true aristocrat

In exile, and Bohemian dishonour –

The spires held the drooping sheets of dusk

Which weighed warmly over the baroque street way:

Like the thrill of a child, reading late at night

With dull torchlight and claustrophobic zeal.

You sprang on me and asked, And what if you,

And what if you and I, And what if you –

Like the child, reading illicitly.

And if you would, unquestioning I’ll die.



Back from when I was a student at Cambridge. If you weren’t careful, every evening could ensnare you this way. 


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