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We Are Basically Alone

She

bled wistful into my other works less sanguine and yet harder still than any Athena I had formerly claimed. A paragon of how not to be all circled about her possessions: a pocketful of lover and little boy and parades of professions that only pay the bills and on again to another not to be owned but owned still by the wanting of it.

Monarch, hang imposing in her front room a reminder of the place she held in his imagination and the reflection upon which he stared as he made love to the other woman regretlessly.

And, predictably, it broke in the end. His manipulation and fantasy all wrapped round her cast iron fist left bloodless long ago by countless angry days

merged now into one solid bitch of a wife.

And have I become it. The dreaded pillar of salt staring long and lustful at some city of yesterday in which I wore skirts of deep sea green and sang together with the wind made love as I wished in the woods sticks in my hair unposessed by the sun.

This summer is cold and lost in the search
for my wolves

Regretfully re-introduced
to my former formica heaven

and this time searching that soul
outside my window

I find unexpected a reflection of me
stretching on

into her smallest fluttering
palm.


3:08 p.m. - 2007-05-30
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