The vastest things are those we may not learn.We are not taught to die, nor to be born,Nor how to burnWith love.How pitiful is our enforced returnTo those small things we are the masters of.

Why break the heart that never beat from love?

The crumbs blow free down the pointless seaTo the beat of a cakey heartAnd the sensitive steel of the knife can feelThat love is a race apartIn the speed of the lingering light are blownThe crumbs to the hake above, And the tropical air vibrates to the droneOf a cake in the throes of love.

For what is more lovable than failure?

Meanwhile Bellgrove had been savouring love's rare aperitif, the ageless language of the eyes.