I had you mistaken, sir

for some kind thing, a soft retreat,

a cold kiss, gently singing

in my ear.

But I see that you must be a person, sir.

Having called you else, I am the fool,

for who but a human could be so cruel

in such plain light.

Perhaps this isn’t the title you seek, sir.

A sad sort of purpose, ritualism:

I can see the soothing green

behind your eyes.

But I think the hand of life, sir,

has, past your acquaintance--a simple handshake--

little reach in the land of Death.

And your tender ministrations wreak of silence,

that thing that stretches on, sir.

You know it well; it is your pet.

This sleep is not a gentle sort of stuff.

And I was wrong;

you are far from beautiful, sir.

I have seen your face--

through a window, it is true,

but you were undeniably

what you are, sir.