There’s an irony of category
as a garden, well tended at arms length
for a few lucky years
is laid to waste, resting
in apparent emotional disarray;
it quietly explains
the mathematics of contingency
and happy accident,
leaving one foolish heart
to listen to its own
The time has come to put earnest performances back under canvas;
a time to teach my mind to unsee, my eyes to allow you to go,
but the posters, curling in the wind and rain will still recognise
the authentic beauty of your necessary indifference,
and, despite a plethora of undercurrents, your absence won’t hurt at all.
My handful of words must reach only to judge the breeze’s new direction
and mouth silently your warmth without making a fist
– even Prospero, as skilled in magic arts as he was, wouldn’t hinder Miranda’s folly.
My Meursault must, once more, shoot my child and be alone with absurd sadness,
fully aware that there’s no narrator’s, no author’s presence in this unwise fiction.
I’ll continue to slingshot a look, steal a glance, for old times’ sake
and at least know where you are, know your new spacial coordinates
and gather random moments so I can think I might feel.
though even the most inviolable amour will press on the involuntary,
the immediately engorged heart, beating bigger when you look
as if you recognise me.
There’s no embarrassment in loving you
only shame in not fully acknowledging
– those soul crushing moments of forgetting the real –
your ease of expression that doesn’t always know its own power.
I am, despite myself, compelled to see you
even when I’m not looking.