It was all so Orfeo
the other night.
When the face you carry
is not your own
and the history in this
is a history of
haunted ground.
The world is a veil.
Its effects total
the imagination.
What have I been doing
without me
all this time?
Don’t know if
I want to anymore.
I wonder distance
and its discontents.
I trouble distance
nevertheless.
The poet is abuzz.
The poet becomes
a bug in air.
How did I lose you
between the rug
on my floor and
the sun setting
out the window,
between the radiator
and a dusky
kaleidoscopic light?
To wander that light
ingenuous before dark.
To wonder the beautiful
so close to death.
Where do you go
when I don’t see you?
Or who am I when
you’re not around?
