Poetry

RC deWinter

THE LAST OF THE GREAT ROMANTICS

Because everything moves so fast.
Leaves spiraling away in the time it takes to breathe.
I can’t keep up.

More accurately I won’t keep up.

A dinosaur.

More accurately a snail.

Long slow nights. Candles.

Lounging in lavender light.

Wearing the lace of dead days.

Waiting. Weighting. Measuring.

Words having nothing to do with the everyday.
Words having everything to do with the everyday.
Of the mind. Not the marquee.

Of the heart. Not the costume.

I keep my promises.

Pay my debts.

Know how to love.

APRIL SHOWERS

A vicious wind hurls raindrops and bits
of aborted April branches studded with
leafbuds that will never bloom against the
screens with the unconscious artistry of
an expressionist in a trance, all the while
singing in a familiar voice I can’t quite

place. Echoing in a neuron corridor

littered with the leftovers of another life

begging to be remembered. But the

synapses are too wet to fire.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch the
smoky outline of a man I thought was you
but isn’t. But he has a way about him. Or

maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s just the
leftovers of desire aborted when you fell
into the unmarked grave I visit in my

dreams and decorate with the parts of me

I’d saved for the glorious entwining that

now, hunched silent on a splintered bench,

mocks me with dead flowers and a smile.

And this is how I am in these dark days

of death and more death as cold April rain

batters the windows, muddies the earth

and sings the names of the fallen in the

unprejudiced language of grief.