In the hollow of the night
I hear only Neville's heartbeat, his breath
And the wind's disquiet;
This sickness of my liver is guilt perhaps,
Hard coin, clammy certainty,
Of burgled moments
(Richard attends a conference:
Returns tomorrow with love and chocolates,
Perfume and dull remorse),
Or summation of lifelong transgression
Catalogue of trivial offences, now weighty,
The liver's stoker, bile mounting,
Profane.
Only Neville's heartbeat, a fierce pounding,
The slow breath, and under the blanket
his balls like a turkey's neck:
Only these will suffice.
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