THE POET TO HIMSELF Poem by Leonard Nolens

Go on, just you try, unclothe me
To the bone, I'll remain the final cut
Of your suit, the rested rectangle
Of your bed, your handiest form of hope.

And you, you're nothing but a glimpse
Of me, oh you, my chain-smoking shadow
Between two trains, my moaning phantom

With suitcases, you, my hobbling ghost
Who will wash away through the slow revolving door
Of a derelict station.

Go on, just you try, forget me,
My friend, my frank absent slave.
I am your whip, you bleed from my hours.
I am your work and you are my servant.