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.
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.
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.