If I’ve shown up at your room, drunk,
at 3am, then let’s at least agree
that lesser men have sunk
lower, and that my being here at least shows you and me
have a unique connection, that drew
us two together against all
odds: something mostly complex, though
grave, something ultimately true,
or that at least when falling home I thought of you
You! with whom I’m aligned on all three planes:
material, reflexive, transverse
— and yes my suit is stained
but that’s less my fault than the gravitational
force that drew the wine into my shirt,
the same that put my knees into this dirt
or forced the pebble through your windowpane:
all of which for which you will agree I’m not to blame.
This situation is, I think, the result of a kind of coup,
whatever the opposite of heaven-sent
is, my lying on your stoop,
aloof, alack, somewhere south of penitent.
Livia, please, my heart is on my sleeve. And if it’s not
it’s somewhere close. That tree-branch,
snowflake, or that young woman’s far-off cries; or if
it’s none of those at least admit it’s cold — cold, Livia,
painfully so — and allow me to stay, meek,
to sleep above your sheets while you lay underneath,
now upset, recalcitrant, and hurt,
stroking my cheek
as I weep softly into your skirt
