There was no radio,
singing sweet and soft and slow,
That you could have danced to if you chose.
Nor was that any sense of exhaustion,
Nor a wild wind, to which caution
could have been bagged up and thrown.
No, what struck you was the silence—
so hard you almost lost your balance,
Falling headlong in the road.
And it seemed odd and rather sad,
That something supposedly so grand,
Could have turned out so distressingly mild.
No, it didn’t drive you wild.
Nor was it some sacred call.
You didn’t even feel that fall.
So, you decided at that moment:
You said: Now, these data aren’t consistent
With what I know, and thus it cannot be the case.
There was no storm, no flash of lightning,
No revelation sweet and frightening,
No amazement when I saw you angel face.
And that thought was disappointing,
Nearly verging on revolting
that your feelings weren’t appropriately fierce.
Your illusion was thus broken,
And your hope so swiftly taken,
That you thought: well, all relation
must just be some kind of fatal farce,
Or an empty act so crass.
And I don’t need this shit at all.
I didn’t even feel that fall.