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in an ordinary world; all this would be fine
we would set aside blankets and leave the evening for the morning

looking out into the thunderous bay; I think of thousands of years of mistakes
the cabanas washed away; the bulkheads buckled; my memories protected in totes

scalded by a foolish notion that like the red brick of these roads pounded by time and progress, waiting sentiments would revitalize an adherence to youth

we wake up many days; driving home, sanitized by the not so brilliant stardust of an incoherent push to perfection; see that losing end and actualize: things will never be the same

I have since removed that tattoo, the tribal scar of youth to peek beyond the seraphim; through the hostile looking glass to a hazy black and white static

a radio silence prevailed and I was memorizing an iambic pentameter; it was the word and my deed was to reconcile the verb

we have since passed the days that a romantic would romance the demur into Daphne and out of her black sweater and into a cheerleader uniform

the shuffling silence of bronzy lit hallways; of carpeted offices, of humidified air transcend the sculpted actuary standing with sublime quarry, bereft, intangibly assuring

would I have willed to become the guilty sort; the grieving lean or the gaudy gown? Ah, once I said; if I let go this one time, I could always get it back…




ШАМРО

September 14, 2008

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