That night, your final nightalive, I turned from your locked red door still holding your letter, a thunderbolt that could not earth itself. Shock remade my brains, and the prevalent devils of ill-love added to the huddle of riddles that failed to divulge their unhappy import – was that your plan?
Dellarobbia, my numbed love, with your two mad needles inside my skin, embroidering stitches among my nerves with their obsessed in and out: since my escape you had become such a hunted thing – the smouldering shards of your strange smile dangling beyond actuality, the lovely eyes behind their raving mask burning at the windows of their cell.
Abandoning you was my failed effort to annihilate the Minotaur of your maze; few ever met that demented animal. But the artistry of this plot was perverted when – choking on infinite German hatred – you gassed your ferocious kupo, and yourself…
What happened that night, inside your hours, is unknown as birth; the membrane of each slow second emblazoned on a brain wanting only to feel nothing.
Soon to be dead I imagine you just turning out of Fitzroy road with your long black coat and your hair coiled up, rushing towards a phone booth that can never be reached.
How often did you try to ring that night, sleepless wife? Before midnight? After? Again? And, near dawn, again? Your last attempt already deeply past when the voice like a measured injection delivered its cool words into my ear: