A Lovers Tryst
Don’t hold me to blame.
The road was never straight
nor the wind mild of frame
Your bedside monitor screeches
one incessant, contrary acoustic.
Giving notice to all abroad that
time has moved on elsewhere
Let me raise you up and brush
away the marks that play a
cracked tune on your broken
parts, like a drummer breaking sticks
The glass of your eye
holds the drink of my heart,
where champagne bubbles try
to revive an empty space no
longer receiving its rhythmic pulse
The mood of your limbs ,
restrained by dysfunctional form
and snared by aseptic plastic,
bring a darkness to this room.
And, like American Indians
encircling a wagon train,
Dante's allegorical limbo
encircles your bed, pining
for your life renunciated husk
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