Now that my idle
life has
reached its end
Scooped
out like a pearl from the mess I've been
Inclined to think unkindly
is our
age's church
I
can address
you at last without offense
Without shrouding us both
in circumstance
And that
flower you cautioned I never touch
I now wear on my sleeve
like a black
corsage
Stinking
of sickrooms camphor and rage
And since I dwell among
those ineffable
things
Which you
in your ignorance call nothings
I suppose nothing is what
you'll
make of this
More's
the pity for whenever you come
To weigh in your palm some
vague
impression
Of the
world beyond you'll remember it as
A continuo of what
you'd feared
most
In the
manuscripts Europe fed the host
Of choiring flames the
fire-cure
of oblivion
That can
never be doused or forgotten
Never be banked to silence
no you
must begin
To accustom
yourselves as I've done here
To this bracketed absence (Guillaume
Apollinaire)
To this
ungloved handshake I hope extends
Beyond the one unkindness
you won't
forgive
My undying
my reader my sweet revenge
© by Sherod Santos
