Archaic

You could compose your tome
about anything, about how you wish
models could achieve the shape

of your wife caught from the side
as she readies herself for bed, beauty
without pretense. You could

compose your tome about the field
across the road, where one could
imagine a labyrinthian park

leading to a hidden lagoon. You could
speak about the sunrise or the moon.
Here, in this place, now-light that greets

you each morning as a gallery opened
exclusively for you. Instead you linger
on some slight that happened so long ago

US senators had not been born. A kiss
only unconceived CEOs were there for.
A pond gone dry. A barge decommissioned.

A river that cleansed itself of a century
of chemicals. Yet in song you still draw
it and yourself, as perpetually toxic.

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One Comment Add yours

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