Protest

Of course I take the bait, having forgot
I set it up myself. I don’t deny
responsibility, but all the same
I know we knew what happened. (So we thought.)
The warmth of greetings is no alibi.
In any other time – or so I claim –
the logic of the evening would dictate
the consequent professions of affect.
What of those mornings, what of lunch
in curious tucked-away bits of estate?
What of the poems you never left intact,
intent on finding meaning in a hunch?
How cleverly you dodge my textual lure.
Did you think I could flee your own allure?

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