SPILL

You turn away. I remember again

the first time you turned toward me,

knocking over your glass.

We sat at a table, getting drunk.

The first time you turned toward me

I knew this moment would come:

two people getting drunk at a table,

getting it over with. And though

I knew this moment would come

I couldn’t help kissing you,

getting it over with, although

we might have stayed friends, otherwise;

but I couldn’t help kissing you,

starting things up—the hasty undressing, the love

we might have kept as friends, if we were wise.

Now, stupidly, we’ve come to the end.

Starting things up was hasty, love.

Knocking over your glass

I stare stupidly. We’ve come to the end.

You turn away. I remember again.