Talk ran into twilight, then stopped.
A hidden charm was taking shape
above branches and power lines,
warding off selfless sleep and leaving me
to brood on a bolus
of hope and pain. Alcohol helped,
Each drumbeat and flower
seemed a suggestion that if not
taken lightly could lead to a permanent
lifestyle change: a journey to Rome,
or learning jujitsu.
When constellations showed their arms
in the east, I was alone
with thirty past refractions of myself,
the best years of my life, each
whispering its encouragement
or reproach. It was like relaxing in a Jacuzzi full
of blood. In a riot of tears,
I wished a photographer would shoot me
and mail you proof of my grief.
Not that I had your address—when I searched
the Web I discovered you
were a French starlet
from the eighties. I watched cones
of headlamps cross the lawn
and imagined a few close-ups: eyes
glassy with abandon, lips
moist and ready, each hair in its place
in black and white half-light.
My tumbler was sweating.
It was time to go inside again.