still stuffed with unspilled images would
“. . . stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.”
Think? I tell him. Not much compensation
for dying young.
Romantic imagination, he says. Soul-making.
Acrobatic tricks of mind on earthly apparati.
You don’t quite stick the landing, I say, unimpressed.
I’d hoped for something more emphatic after all those clauses—
epiphany, apotheosis, or even bitterness would do.
But no. Look at you acting pleased while tottering off kilter,
hips untucked, hungering for what you’ve lost!
Out the coffeeshop window, drivers scrape
gigantic SUVs against the curb.
I always made an awkward bow,
he says and vanishes.
And me with my lavish ordinary life,
my half-drunk latte, and my thoughts
like wind-blown down from a torn winter coat.
