Her Poem
Oh, she is the damnation of me.
Letting me taste from the cup,
but taking it away before I sip.
I am just a blind man crashing
through the glass factory of her,
opening box after box, but never
finding the steel-lipped chalice.
She pulls me in. Like a sand-yacht
on a windless day, hauled across beach
by the angry parent of a sulky child.
I am trying to finish a jigsaw; peeling
edges not quite straight and middle gone.
Why did she take the missing piece?