Two people are not in love. They do not
love each other.
There’s a woman up in a tower. A woman
in power – spending money on thick make-up, strong perfume.
They say she has a lover. But her favours
are not flesh. It would kill me to see her naked –
it would crack me up. Even if she were
pretty – she’d look the same
as everybody else.
Two people are not in love. They don’t take lovers.
No lovers take them. The man
is a fool – expecting any day a visit.
He sits in a tower. He puts on woman’s clothes.
This is the joke – he spends money on the sensitivity
of his spirit. His favours are flesh.
But he has no power. Even if he had power –
no one would accept his favours –
the way he clothes them.
Two people are not in love. They don’t love
each other – because they don’t love being two.
It’s a constant delight to look at them –
she could have lovers
but doesn’t want; he could have influence
but won’t do: they constantly compromise
the beauty that is singular
by the honesty duplicitous and the truth that is double –
they compliment each other on their mutual failure.
Two people are not in love – and me,
I sing to a woman – a woman in a tower,
a woman in power. I compare her favours –
that are not flesh. With the tokens my friends show.
Her influence can move mountains for me. If not
I can choose another. After all
she is not my lover.
What is good is useful. What is bad’s at worst
a lewd joke. I am not in love.
