Supple Surface of Deceit

Or the hue of its depths be

But the vivid thing I remember

Is its frigidity

As ice bound as southern drink

On a torrid July day

But without flavor or remorse

For those who fitfully stay

This is where my mind is

And has been for many a year

For on that desperate November morn

My lady's day was near

Come, said she

Trusting and gay,

Come and slide on the ice

But did she know

That beneath her feet

Laid revenge in watery strife

Times run on, me all alone

Amongst ones stranger than I

Forward they ask

About the past

So, of course,

I have to lie.