Day came, taking the lame poet
with irremediable laughter where he lay
that he should have discovered there
in a woman's arms, after all, himself,
as they'd always said he would. She lay
ruddy beside him, perfectly realized,
hyacinthine hair on the pillow,
shoulders warm, her face rosy with sleep.
"Lady," he said, waking her, "Lady,"
and she turned lazily into his arms.
"What can I give you for this night
we've spent? What can I promise
for what you've given me?
I want to pledge you something."
She answered dreamily, questioning the poet.
"What have I given, more than the hundred others?
I do not pity you, and I believe
little of what you swear."
"That doesn't matter. Listen.
I find I'm simpler than I'd thought,
need less and can give more, for once.
What you will have, I promise."
She looked away from him, past the white window.
"Poems," she said, and abruptly rose.
He stared, wordless, as she dressed and left him
whose written word had been whole miracle,
and did not come to him again.