EXORATION / Winter Light

Winter light. Morning whispers.
Too often now. And again
the sky. The night. And again,
too soon. The stars and the moon
awakened. Too often I
have awoke the night, too soon.
Awakened. I have again
disturbed the constellation.

Once more, of what importance?
This passage, not quite enough
repeated. And so again
To ask why, the anxious night
The sky, again this passage
and this passage repeated.

The sullen sonata now
suddenly become a fugue.
The memory of carbon.
The spirit of water and
fire. And of course, this desire.
And you, after all these years,
Surrogate on a Sunday.

Again I have awakened
to find the night sky severed
and the light separated
of stars. The sky hollowed out
in the absence of such thoughts
of death and this seduction.

Too often I have echoed
the words. This phrasing, the same
macabre mantra leading to
the same darkened cul de sac.
Too often have I wished to
end it. To live. Terminate
what was forgone or ended.

I will have seen your beauty
then shortly thereafter, I
will have forgotten this pain.
I will have met you, of course
eventually, in that field
I will have crossed your strict but
still somnolent gaze through
the moiré of bending reeds.

Once again the tragic air,
the music muted. The same
passage stagnant. Too often
I embarked on the wrong path
not knowing what brought me here.

Roll such tautologies like
stale tobacco. This and that.
Maybe. Maybe not. Mark my
misfortune in the acid
remains of espresso cups.
No culture of cobble stone
walks or cathedral ruins.
And no new discoveries.

I shall thumb through the pages
of the broken book, recite
the passages, always known,
but only now understood.
I shall bore banalities
in legal absinthe. I shall
see my estranged fate in the
fleeting glances of women.

I will have talked and talked and
said nothing. My lips will have
moved without shaping a word.
I will have spent a life time
without speaking, without the
particular need of speech.

I will have given myself
to your splendor, in rapture,
of course, well intentioned but
stupidly, fallen in love
even, and lost you again
to that certain other world.
I will have deemed it worthwhile,
despite myself, in the glow.

Summer waking. Strange lover.
I shall forever deny
having written anything.
I shall deny all the words,
the poetry in this world,
And beauty. And art. And you.
This derangement of dimanche.
My impatience for morning,
with it, my impertinence.
This slow splendor. And this swoon.

–from Exoration