Rhapsody

All right, now this one is a little exaggerated — forgive me. The time: nearing ten-thirty. The place: here. The persons: whatshisname (Ben?), Tom and myself. With a gourmet meal — thawed fish and chips, decanted by yours truly — settling in our I Guess This'll Do bellies, we organised ourselves for a debate of sorts, filmed from the corner for posterity.
"Never until the mankind making, bird, beast and flower," I began, overflowing with righteous poesy.
Ben smirked and countered: "We are hollow men. We are stuffed men."
Before I could rebuke, Tom strode in between us.
"Drift close to me, and sideway bending, whisper delicious words," he said, punctuating with curt glances and taut fists.
"No," I cried, eyes welling with passion. "Praise that the spring time is all—"
"April is the cruelest month," interrupted Ben, calmly. "Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain."
I considered. "Here in the spring, stars float along the void." Come back from that!, my smile said.

"They say that the Dead die not, but remain, near the rich heirs of their grief and mirth."
We both turned to Tom, puzzled at his addition.
"Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow up the white moon's hidden loveliness," he continued. Either he was drawing a very long bow or—
"After the torchlight red on sweaty faces [not unlike Ben's as he spoke], after the frosty silence in the gardens, after the agony in stony places. The shouting and the crying." Curses. I was behind. How could I miss the connection?
"O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies," I wailed desperately. They pounced.
Tom: "Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire of watching you, and swing me suddenly into the shade and loneliness and mire of the last land!"
Ben: "The withered root of knot of hair, slitted below and gashed with eyes; this oval O cropped out with teeth, the sickle motion from the thighs."
I could do this. "Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. I advance for as long as forever is." A pause. Yes. Then:
"And so I never feared to see you wander down the street, or come across the fields to me on ordinary feet." Here Tom lighted on my lap, devilishly testing my liberalism. "For what they'd never told me of, and what I never knew; it was that all the time, my love, Love would be merely you." I shook him off.
"Not from this anger — anticlimax after refusal struck her loin and lame flower bent like a beast to lap the singular flood," I scoffed, composing myself.
"Along the reaches of the street," said Ben, determined, "held in a lunar synthesis, whispering lunar incantations."
"Creeps in half wanton, half asleep, one with a fat wide hairless face."
"And freely he goes lost in the unknown, famous light of great and fabulous, dear God."
"Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn in a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown." Ben's repetition was powerful. We steadied ourselves.

"In the beginning was the three-pointed star," I announced. "One smile of light across the empty face."
"And the dark woods grew darker still. And birds were hushed. And peace was growing. And quietness crept up the hill." Tom had lost some of his fury.
"The host with someone indistinct converses at the door apart." (For the record, I was still in the room when Ben said this — metaphor, perhaps?)
"When I see you, who were so wise and cool, gazing with silly sickness on that fool you've given your love to, your— Shit, I've got to go. It's nearly eleven." Saying this, Tom retrieved his jacket and thanked me for the evening. A premature end (Ben left, too), but a memorable evening. The issue would have to remain unresolved for the moment. For once, I did not mind.