Love is so
diffident a thing.
I scoop up my hands with air;
I do not find it there
Nor in my friend's
pleasure
Nor when the birds sing.
I am
confused,
forsaken.
I have lost the way.
Love's not as some men say
In woman's eyes, blue or grey;
Nor in kisses given and taken.
Love, I call out, find me
Spinning round in error.
Display your dank, coarse hair,
Your bubs and bulbous shoulder.
Then strike, witless bitch, blind me
Irving Layton, 1955