Hymn to All the Men I'll Never Love

My heart, sing praises to the men

I'll never love; from whom a night

away's just that — a night — and not

a lifetime in the desert without food

and water. It's because of them

that breakfasts can be eaten, Lord, appointments 

kept, and letters left to lie 

where they have fallen; men with whom

a perfect evening may be nothing more

than beer and cards outside beneath the lean-to

where straight-talk and easy gestures leave

dark nests of sparrows and the scent

of bonfires in their wake; the sort of men

whose smiles I can endure without

surrendering my all to them;

in whose unswerving disregard,

let heaven rejoice, let the earth be glad.

                                                                           Julia Copus