Poetry and Poetics
I lose myself in dialogue,
character caught in the opening
I crave erotic moments
amidst London being shelled,
explosions from bombs & indignation.
I smell burning dust as I watch,
taste words that mean Goodbye-
salty from tears & cooled by
(the unspoken words).
A friend told me once
the enduring (or eternal)
sorrow in Ralph Fiennes' eyes
reminded her what she saw in mine.
She meant Fiennes
in The English Patient,
not Greene's End of the Affair.
It's the same defeated character:
angry, alone & not,
smoldering with need
for another's wife.
Both men see their passion flare,
its kindling wane; both rage,
overwhelmed by man & the Divine.
One mourns in a wasteland of human
where arid fury covers all details
with sand — lips dried from sunlight,
books by Herodotus,
violent men in unplanned graves.
The other drowns in sickness of
His story always comes back to rain,
its feel like fingers on his face,
its chill like nostalgia
for the woman he'd loved
who murdered him twice when
she brought him back to life.
© by Ace Boggess
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