She enters in the garb of a poet.

Which is to say,
not much, naked.

So, naturally, I fall in love with her.

~

What comes after?

The ephemera of love.
Limbs and splayed words.

Moonlight on water.
The last florid hours of spring.

Dreams of an ancient courtyard
in ruin. The statues missing their
heads.

~

What comes after

the ephemera of love?
She clothes herself in shawls of regret.

Naked, I wander the barren city.

~

Dogwood petals rotting
between the cobblestones.

We meet for coffee.

“Are you happy?”

He smiles a half-watt smile,
wry and sly.

You know? I hate that word. Happiness.

Her face, sympathetic and mimetic.

I dunno.

I don’t know.

I do not know.

I have people I love
who make me laugh
and make me think
and they listen to my stories
I try to be grateful
and to appreciate beauty
To remember that even if I don’t see it
the world is full of grace
I try to not get upset over petty things
but sometimes I do
I have people I miss
A lot them
And there are mornings I get up and there doesn’t seem to be any coherence to the world
any order
everything is dissociated from everything else
and there’s only horror and death and inexorable loneliness
Those days are hard
But other days I feel ok about life
generous even
and there’s this ineffable luminous quality inside things
On these days
I want to share that with other people
that abundance or gratitude or whatever you might call it

(period)

Her lapis lapidary eyes are steady,
and I remember them, already,
as on my death bed.

Because I must remember them now

before I forget their intricacy, their sorrow,
their searching human solitude.

(they are gone as I write this)


I watch her walk away, this lost lover of mine,
so at home in her business casual,
and I understand:

It is hard to be so alone.

It is hard to subsist on imagination,
and the occasional burst of ephemeral clarity.
And sometimes, I get angry for no reason at all,
and I want to put a pen into my own eye. Or,
to side swipe the car passing me on the highway,
punishment for being in such a hurry.
But then, I hurry, too. And it doesn’t matter.
Faster, and faster, always chasing ghosts.