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Sunday, April 23, 2017

She of My World

days dissembled in mindless moments; such
opulent wastage; we never knew
you were I,
or that one day I would be (he) an
unknown that you would
recollect from ephemeral time -- an
evanescent longing which bursts for a
moment in the chest and then is gone in the
eventuality of time; life is a greater
master of will, you do not die nor
become stronger, just a little
erstwhile, a memory if you will;
remote as a dot on a faraway

hill where the sun gets in your
eye and you're unsure of what you saw --
fugacious even -- slavebound and
uniformed into walking a straight line,
circling back in regret
kicking the pebbles at your feet; the years
emollient in between, the possibilities rub
dulcet yet bitter, in empty hands, and
yearning and sickly, sickly
oblique, stuck
under every what
-- what if we could have been the
night and sight and

the sweet light
holding the world to bright
ecstacy to see right; what if we could
always be the boy and girl the
seconds have murdered now,
slowly and quickly
at the mercy of death-row time: the
nemesis of youth,
desuetude, in ruins,
caught in the bed of others,
under the blankets of foolish
notions that your
tomorrows will still be waiting

around for you -- as if on every corner
there was the hope
that tomorrow would
hold a second chance to
enter us once again into each other's
story, where he would appear
and become I; you suddenly (the she) of
my world in light again --
efflorescence in every
touch, how you would flower
in my hands as beautiful as you were
momentary, an opening spring
eloquently brief.

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