jlb

The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have
outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all
hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things
half given away, half, withheld, of joys with a dark
hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd
ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams,
and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry
heart has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly
beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name,
the lilt of your laughter: these are illustrious toys
you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them; I tell
them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars
of the dawn.
Your dark rich life…
I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys
you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile
—that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.