Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
You’re a trigger finger dug into the starting gun,
the smack as it fires, the tense stroke of hooves
pressing into a fresh track. You’re the curiosity
of a flashbulb nibbling air, tricky camera lens
grabbing a mane as it quivers back. I’m a rising
overture of thighs. I’m dirt exploding midair
“Villanelle for D.G.B.”
Every day our bodies separate,
exploded torn and dazed.
Not understanding what we celebrate
we grope through languages and hesitate
and touch each other, speechless and amazed;
and every day our bodies separate
us farther from our planned, deliberate
When I say that she was the greatest,
I mean that she resembled a circus.
She was not brightly colored,
nor was she composed
of three rings, but
under a tent in the middle of
a starlit field
on a summer night,
you could see her
in just a t-shirt
and forget how unhappy
the elephants were.
I believe in the Tuesdays
and Wednesdays of life,
the tuna sandwich lunches
and TV after dinner.
I believe in coffee with hot milk
and peanut butter toast,
Rose wine in summer
and Burgundy in winter.
I am not in love with holidays,
and weekends are just days
numbered six and seven,
though my love
dozing over TV golf
while I work the Sunday puzzle
might be all I need of life
and all I ask of heaven.
Thanks again to exceptindreams.