This Place

There is life here.

And there are seeds aflutter with Gleeful songs and abstracted praises. And a blind bacchante coruscates with abandon, Dancing amid a night’s earnest welcome; And children enthralled by oblivion, Bought and sold by insular moments.

Here is a toast to a passing frame, Of many a breath drawn, and taken away, Of an eye for nicety at times, And at times given to bland, tawdry components Hastily-refined (for my conscience).

To a past extolled This new perspective Determines unforeseen positions, Clarity of vision, Decrepit memories of Mistakes buried into misplaced oaths.

I seek the fugitive in all permanence, Then I cloak it in aureate trappings Of meandering satin. This fervor bears witness And is steeped in tonight’s rage. But I love her Albeit with bruised and disconsolate Prayers yet to be uttered.

Art: “Les Beaux Jours” Claude Carvin

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