Abelard and Eloise - John Burnside

A story the Sisters would tell
for reasons of their own
to children in the slurred chorale
of puberty
and longing at first sight,
it never quite
rang true and, even now,
I half-remember
what I learned elsewhere
from vintage porn
and matinees of noir
whenever I think of them,
parted and settled in
to make the best
of distance, which is far
more beautiful
than half a century
of House & Home;
and I always suspect they’re
relieved,
when the world stalls around
their letters, ermine and bells
and decades of physick
come to a perfect
standstill,
the ink running dry
and the good task of filling the well,
or going about the room
in the honeycombed light,
more pleasing, now,
than what they thought they wanted.

Retirado daqui.