Can't do this Insular
     after Manuel Alegre

A stare, a key, sad for me. Best if two had keys
our senses not yet annulled. For the Crescent Motel.
Arrivederci.
Dormitory propriety rises and I don't wish to cry.

We had foie gras and steak. They would feed my soul. Passion
bred temptation.
But meat now causes woe. So no woe
means monstrous deprivation and minimum ideas.

And we had more foie gras and steak. A lack of meat can also cause woe
my senses not yet annulled.
And in this case there's now no motel. These monstrous subtractions
strain my humanity.

Long since lost our sexual battle on the floor.
Long since lost the disheveled terror of discovery.
Effusive controls meant to proportion our secrets
and fear now turn to Lentish renunciation of daiquiris.

Millions of sunrises later. And a million endgames.
These can't make mundane my memories. Or render me impassible.
It's me still comely though gray with senses not yet annulled
though my hands now shake when I write my name.

Unheroically assessing what's left
I seize upon a stare, the one I didn't marry
renouncing nothing else please, not my radio, my parquet memories
a stare, a key.

— Susan H. Case