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.