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Love is so diffident a thing.
I scoop up my hands with air;
I do not find it there
Nor in my friend's pleasure
Nor when the birds sing.

I am confused, forsaken.
I have lost the way.
Love's not as some men say
In woman's eyes, blue or grey;
Nor in kisses given and taken.

Love, I call out, find me
Spinning round in error.
Display your dank, coarse hair,
Your bubs and bulbous shoulder.
Then strike, witless bitch, blind me

Irving Layton, 1955

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