Words That Burn

Grenoble Cafe, by Jean Garrigue (1914-1972)

 

At breakfast they are sober, subdued.

It is early. They have not much to say

Or with declamations fit only for whisper

Keep under pressure the steam of their joy.

She listens, usually. It is he who talks,

Surrounding her with the furious smoke

Of his looking that simply feeds,

Perhaps, her slightly traveling-away dreams

That, if you judge from her cheek,

Young and incomparably unbroken,

Are rich with the unknowing knowing

Of what he has said the time before

And with the smiles coming down the corridor

Of how it will be for year on year,

Nights as they’ll be in his rough arms.