English Hills Poem by Michael William

There is no pen in this room
with which we could write
and even if
there was a pen, there would be
no songs that would please
these ghosts.

I will have to write this poem tomorrow
in another room
far from these English hills.

I will have to forget these ghosts
and the hungry way
they drool at your legs
and I will have to forget
how you yield to them
with such purpose

that I almost believe
you reach for them from mercy
and not desire.

Maybe we should leave
the stale rain of England
and go back to France.

I miss the nights in Paris
and the confessions of French faces.

I miss the river,
so much like a hopeful eye.

I miss being alone in your love.