Let it Die


There was a limit to our love:

No small distance – five hundred miles –

Our mother tongue, humourlessness.


Jetting in on German Wings,

You met me in black linen trousers,

Noir vest, kohl-rimmed eyes.


We stayed in someone else’s flat:

A demilitarised Eurozone. I didn’t mind,

Though I never did understand the who,


Why, or what we were hiding from.

You took me out walking. We talked little,

But that was fine. Finding somewhere to dine,


Your desperation to please pained me.

Gothic Cologne was drab and bland.

Young couples reeled on the street,


Drunk as bottle tops. Next morning,

We took our cycles down to the Rhine,

In freewheeling sunlight. That evening,


On the cusp of dusk, a small dog bit me

Above the ankle. You didn’t look back.

We took in an English language film,


Daytripped to Amsterdam, skirted round

The coffee shops and flesh palaces.

Fell into a bar. Fell into a fight.


Someone flirted with you. Back in Cologne,

We lay together one last time, listening

To Feist, and the emptying night.