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At An Old Poet's Tombstone
I spent some time with him, a good while back.
Her absence, and what happened years before,
was an implicit burden, but no more
discussed in ordinary conversation.
We knew that she had been---was still---his Muse,
despite her heroin habit's abuse
of her behavior (what a glaring lack
of couth) that caused his soul such agony.
And yet, so much---since---of his poetry
bears more of her than just a dedication:
a teasing word in some obscurer line,
coyly deployed, serves as a lasting sign
to show her not as circumstances seemed
to argue, but as in the love he dreamed.
Starward
[jlc]
