I struggle to reconcile a series of phenomena:
unsettlement a sibling's betrothal or divorce can bring,
four books by Spanish and Latin masters that lay upon the table,
red hardwood leaves bowing to the seasons as I grow older.
Much has been forgotten by swamps
and trees that perish like my lover's cigarettes,
to say little of myself- but I attempt this.
A library was once burned to the ground; which is to say that
this has occurred many times. Philosphicically, irrelevantly,
if a record is not altogether lost it can be said to still exist,
even if no force can unearth or produce it.
Our lives subsume light or fire and piety is the mother of sin.
She is beautiful but I cannot betray the opera,
viewed so often by those who no longer hear;
the story hates and rejects the air, tears fill opaline eyes.
I will not read a calender's page or tell her name.
