Monday he went away.
The moon was in her sign,
the weather smiled,
she cut Jacques Cartiers,
thornless,
pink as in holiday.

From a champagne flute
they waved intimate,
buds opened,
centers fulfilled;
she dreamed in their arms,
cloud and city,
music swelled.

Thursday
one wrinkled, mauved,
one sang alone,
one threatened suicide
on glass-topped table.
He flew home.