i am alone,
but not the alone of the women
painted by Vermeer

quiet in spirit, loyally looking
to distant land
or the letter at hand

i am the alone of
a solitary seal
a dark shining smudge on the surface

but also the alone of Isolde,
for Tristan is dead.

And I am the alone of the
child with nothing to hide--

all is now in memories
in runes and incantations
in fables and in old songs
of love & innocence

all is now in ash and rubble
and I am all alone

why bother hiding it








-------------------------------



with two summers gone by
a young lady might take to
reminiscences, cry
perhaps
the oldest tears yet

i might take to my bed of pain

these are not unusual songs,
though they can be very long

we all once knew a child
and now scarcely know a man

we all once knew a girl, became
a woman by her own hand

I've only tried to be brave, and good,
to love the best I can--

we all have killed things
hoping greener shoots would
grow to stand

what I cannot now allow
is to wish or burn or dream

my dickensian boy is smirking along streets i've never seen

and his hair is still as gold, as gold
as it has ever been

no o. henry lying open though that doesn't bother me

I need no such thing

when I cannot let myself
sing or lean upon that song:

i can't believe that you're here
knocking on my door
well it's been so long,
been so long...