The Other Others

I hope you have white heat,
and the bulbs are all burning
in your loves yard-art lights;
that you are happiness itself.
But my guesses know better,
and I've never been married;
what better excuse to betray,
than the proximities of trusts?
The hand of blase now, always,
strikes down the glorious then,
and then how do we untangle,
in e-mails and redrumuicide,
in public and in the carpark,
on the way to checking outs.