It has nothing to do with language—their papers fracture syntax,
dangle over the railing of incomprehension. Their logic is
a dog chasing its own tail round and round on a golden oak floor.
Do you remember his scrabbling white paws, sun-illuminated,
his high breathy yips? Our helpless laughter syncopated to the
splash and thud of the dishwasher, washing away shared meals.
In the tranquil night, alone, I prop myself on pillows. Weariness blurs
the sentences, the looped vowels of adolescence, round with anticipation
for a kiss, an embrace. My angular slashes mark absences, fragments,
confusion. Translating passion into prose is an adult’s task.
Wafting through the words, the dead poets wave white hands,
the watery rush of emotion long since drained dry.
So much is lost. Here, finally, is truth. Fitzgerald saw this,
his world fading behind alcohol-fogged glasses, common daisies
rimmed with torn white petals—he loves me, he loves me not.
Gin-numbed nights to forget, to forget the green-hued dawn
when we walked across the bridge and you fell off the railing
to the dark sirens below.