…Of naive complacency—your hands—
Wherein possibilities for poignant pleas and
Bathetic poetry are rehearsed romantically—
Hysterically—through looping piano motifs,
And everyday despair.
I am haunted—by hollow, harrowing
Spaces devoid of dramatic redemption.
Filling each frame of memory
With, yet again, empty, barely defined—
Rugged horizons—plummeting musical
Phrases to the intersection of what once was
Seen as bucolic but now a landscape found
Only in—eternal ruin—hiding you—holding—
Still—in poetry—listening to the tips of your
Fingers calling—for mute sympathy…