You wanted to give me
everything—everything—every last thing—
your breasts—your heart—
you bared yourself and said—I am yours.
You said
we would out-do Mellors and Constance!
And I, l'idiot—
I looked at you
through the eyes of a man,
voracious, cunning eyes.
When I stopped—mid-stride,
I saw it all, suddenly, clearly, through your eyes.
Too late.
Je suis Le Fou. Non, je suis une fou.
Hanque O . . .
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-am-not-macbeth-i-am-the-fool/
