Whereupon,
while moving with great solace
as though not a thought would
penetrate,
lovingly, like lovers (of course),
but knowing standing watching
fall leaves, leaves fall
to water like the basin where they christened
me.
How could they forget? Those ancients,
they never knew what I derived from oceans,
or wrote by failed attempts to chart
the fickle chambers in my heart.
But, I stood
and watched leaves fall and writhe
and thought only of love's collapse,
all jealous, speaking careless
passages,
and prolonged
absence, such manic fits of grace
and hate
and lust
for naught. You fool, said I,
you never held such grace, but now
another you shall trust,
reserved, (perhaps), if we are true ourselves.
A breath, a glance at empty hands,
recall the things that they did end.
Let me list the damages:
I am a traitor,
and I cannot repair the wings
of that which was not made to fly.