It was the time of revelation,
the revolution of sad confession,
telling tales of relationships gone awry,
the catalogue of human errors
and admitted imperfections
that proceeded this new “us.”
He was tired of such moments,
and debated about possibly
creating wild unlikely fictions
far more interesting
than real life had provided.
He wondered if she too
felt the same exhaustion.
This is the age of no secrets,
where every story gets told
in great detail, over and over
toward some shiny oblivion.
He didn’t want to know too much,
preferring the way imagination
could fill in those sensual gaps.
Let touch and scent and ignorance
converge to rule the night.
These words were no matter,
yet he felt obliged to feign interest
as she explained about that jerk
who left her for her best friend
(at least he thinks that’s what she said).
He nods politely, and assumes
facial expressions appropriate
to the reception of such information.
This is crucial, meaningful sharing,
yet he wants to be somewhere,
anywhere else, loathing the
call and response of this old song,
the way he must follow-through
with some tale of equal or better
misadventures of the heart.
He longs for secrets, for solitude
without explanation, an acceptance
of existence without revisiting history.
It’s a long way across black waters
to where you softly whisper your rumors,
spin moonlight into gossamer and innuendo,
excite readers into shared adventures
that we’d all like to believe happened.
How many would be disappointed
to look into those eyes and find them cold,
emptied of the wild heat that once made
a four-poster bed into a kingdom’s throne.
Now there is a tired bemusement,
a calculated tolerance that produces,
sitting at this oversized wooden surface
as sole member of this linguistic assembly line,
placing adjectives and prepositions,
an absent-minded Eiffel, turning phrases
into variants of what came before,
hoping no one discovers what they lack.
What Ample Eyes Reveal
Her laughter sings,
a torch connecting men
into bright constellations
that fill heavens
with rich possibility.
This rigid time’s
demands and parries
chime an intensity,
a ticking that explodes logic
for whatever reason.
Her smile teases,
knowing and prickly,
a polished tray,
fragrant lavender and ice,
of fresh denial,
hiding in corners
of awkward metaphor,
climbing overgrown tendrils
toward a western solution,
headstrong and upward,
tangled into endless morning,
confirmed through the chorus
and a hummed second verse.