The Night Elizabeth Bishop Broke Off Our Affair

Your precision terrifies me, and I think
well no wonder you took to drink,
having all that intolerable fact
and no saving, blurring, merciful tact.

Of course I love you I say
And your forearm turns away,
the ulna and radius within untwist
until the shaking supine wrist

lies supplicating, flat,
and you say sharply, what do you mean by that?
I lay my cheek in your palm, on the table
and realize that I am not able

to answer. I can't construe,
not having the facts you do,
not knowing where the lines must fall,
guessing each one smudges all.