“And Who Am I”
And who am I in all of this? Alibis
Within me raise a cry wherever ears
Lean to hear the accusations, fears,
The slight misgivings as I can hear a choir of flies
That never seems to feed enough to rest nor gain
An edge on satisfaction. Harpies stand in line
For a little light conversation, milk left standing, blind,
When in an instant what was not well framed
Has no name but persists for yet another round, a trial
More of patience than of wit or witness. A flat denial.
Poverty of sight and never ending delay deranges
Compromise. Well, after all a mind’s a finite thing,
And as with a thesis in the tub, antithesis leaves its ring.
“But When I Got There”
But when I got there she was gone. She’d left
No plea, no word where she’d be; I read her psalms a while,
A scribbled promissory note–revealed, not written–styled
In slashes, rushed laconic storms as if she’d dreamt,
Then scribbled some several images and icons that came
To mind, their colors, shapes, emphatic significance long lost.
But yes, of course, a cornacopia of some importance with costs
To others never mentioned, measures all the same;
Her markers, a pocket watch, a dance card, rounds again
Erased, replaced by later exponents and functions, the last
Of greater importance than the first, as if somehow all past
Positions, titles, desertions and queues were prearranged
By station assigned more than content stoked and enflamed,
And as with her I had come first, I no longer had a name.