Decades
float by. The last time was the first time—to ache in beating oceans, to sail
seas, to nestle aside a beehive. Never many photos, so inordinate, angered to
lose our way. The walls make it uneasy, words form spontaneously, things stated
seem to anger, with one undermining anything beautiful. I need to release the
gray moon, to un-clutch the raving sun, to unmind the stars; if it was easy, it
wouldn’t be original, so much power in you. I was musing a dream, caught under
a spell, wrestling ideals, and you appeared—those sensories upon a spectrum, to
see us as opposites. Poetry never ends well. It never fixes the sorrow. It drives
souls into spaces—becoming artifacts, again, inordinate, filled with promises,
nudged by iniquity. We failed each other. Terms became unbearable. You changed
the agreement. I was firm on the tenets. I see it went sour. You met an equal …
on your terms … a little more equipped. Poetry never ends well—it spins without
permission—it has a feeling in itself.
