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.
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