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The first convincing
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I refuse to embrace this moment's hungry widow
her wimple chafing loudly against the stile
engages one in a Proust-like gambol, long
thwarted for sure but no stranger to tomorrow.
no more so, than the talk of Wednesday's God
about the wives of clouds when salt is what is needed.
Some sort of mercury he claimed.
We bought it and left it on the boat.
Lost in the spray, the bounce,
the lights reflected in the blame
that stood between us.
I do not care for your cold dish,
better yet it hadn't been required,
but that boat, we've seen, has sailed
and full of the mad we won't own up to.
succumb to really, a reality of lies we will
throw upon, proclaim and defend even when
the weft wanders and warps our desires to simply be.
simple.
be.
Not then it shouts. Not then nor there.
Sleep did not come that season and it showed
in every widow that wasn't there, from the beginning.
That fish is worth embracing if only for the eyes that hang there
beneath the blades, pipes, urinals and soup cans;
all dripping certitude nobody could claim.
