Lying entwined with you
on the long sofa
the hi-fi helping
Isolde to her climax
I was clipping
the coarse hairs
from your ears
and ruby nostrils
when you said, “Music
for cutting nose wires”
and we shook so
the nailscissors nicked
your gentle neck
blood your blood
and we clung tight
pelted with Teutonic cries
till the player
lifted its little prick
from the groove
all arias over
leaving us
in post-Wagnerian sadness
later that year
you were dead
by your own hand
blood your blood
I have never understood
I will never understand.