Yet still I write
Of the ocean’s moonlight reflections
Of my own dances with the shadows
I am as no one without my writing
So I go to illusory pasts
With mountains & meadows
& I cast myself
To the vague details of the mind
There to find nothing
That might give the consolation
Of her skins sensitive sensations
With no one & being no one
You might expect a desperate tone
Yet alone, as you now find me
Is a new found treasure
The pleasure of meditation
That well chosen gifts evoked
Fresh thoughts provoked
Of those hours we talked
Before the melancholy set in
The follies of that life;
Where we meet, where we part
Were we start, and where
Where do we finish
I write to no one now that I have lost her
Yet still I write
Of sunlight in the marketplace
Of hot coffee in the Paris pavement café
I am as someone with my writing
I roam around the sculpture parks
Visit historic European gardens
& I fast, fast upon myself
From the incidental revisions
There to rediscover precision
Among the gifts of creation
A purpose, with an inclination
With one and being someone
You might expect an elated tone
Yet alone, as you now find me
Makes me variable as the weather
To untether the indignation
My present pretence revoked
Old ideologies rattled & stoked
Scented flowers smoked
Before the reverie begins
The very stuff of strife
Where we laugh, where we cry
Where we hope and where
Where did she die
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149
