There is a picture which shows him
Kissing her goodnight
But her love was dull,
Like putrescent matter drawing flies

So he knew better:
His was a distaste for everything:
The blossoms and their silent,
Eloquent gestures had now lost their
Cool, valuable quality

Her eyes were grey and neutral
But he did not really need a girl,
The army had taught him that
Yet he imagined a paradise, silent
In all of the gardens and
The bees going backwards and forwards

All is the obverse of what it had been
The hopeful bodies of the young
Had gone away, common to all battles
He learned that in the army by
Decisions of life and death,

Things are fallen which had stood
Upright. Still, Tobin said:
“You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb”

That was all a lie
He knew he could never do it again
So, for him, war was a hobby,
His distraction