Howard Firkin
She was an angel once—she didn’t seem:
a face the sun would never shine upon,
a vision, packing up and being gone
as she chose to, as certain as a dream,
as maddening and futile as her kiss.
She was a mermaid once—an old tale told
to ever new belief: men chanced the main,
tore back her comfortless grey counterpane,
and found and fucked her, silver, sexless, cold.
I should have learnt something from all of this.

She was a trick of light and wave and mind,
a longing conscious thought could not dismiss;
she vanished with the moment she defined.
I should have learnt something from all of this.