Iced Geikkekan and blackberries, workhorse 
Harnessed to a lyrical depression. 
You, dear, were the one I was meant to have 
Arguments with about stale baguette crumbs 
Left between the flat and fitted bedsheets. 

I, instead, have this hard fossilized bit 
Of obligatory monogamy 
Between my teeth and gums. The slick coldness 
Of the chilled glass rests between my fingers. 
Each night I deposit my bony rump 

Against this wickered, verandah settee, 
Watching faux, white columns frame the full moon. 
Since you've left, I have forced chapped lips to speak 
The names of heart flowers, perennials 
Such as sweet, sweet William and hyacinth. 

I long for the sturdier shrubs-common 
Lilac, viburnum-redolent hedges 
That incense my mind with smoke, dark rifts 
Of fragrance. The metronome ticks loudly, 
Keeping inaccurate time to a fugue; 

My mind provides no accompaniment. 
How could Life leave me, the child of rhythm, 
With no beat, save a dying heart. Beneath 
Spanish moss, on a dirt-clod road, the same 
Ole merchant peddles her sway-hipped wares; 

I wonder the movement, the humidity, 
The sleek black V of wild geese returning 
Home from their sojourn-concentric circles 
Of logic spiraling outwards, reaching 
The boundaries of existence, and you.