sonata for a madame claret
By: ShinigamiForever

I'm taking the first exit
out of this freeway.
I was not looking for summer
until you told me I was.
But one cannot talk or even think about summer
when it is raining outside.
Surely that burns
even you,
who has decided to never let me in or out.

It must be because of the leftover
excavation of a passionate love affair
between steam and cement.
Some of it must be blamed on my imagination,
a stolen paradise punched porous
by you masquerading as time.
Vernacular literature aside,
there is only so much of
you I can take. The rest of you will be left
for the transparencies. You too
can be cut thin enough.

All this aside, and you born of necessity,
you have never tried to be
anything more or less than our expectations.
If, on occasion, you are
a movie star obsessed with the charm of espionage
and a tortured art conneusier who has forgotten his way home
and a lover of F. Scott Fitzgerald
and a mid-April snowstorm haunted by the sun--


I have my suspicions, ranging from
the incurable romantics born of hunger
or the barren windswept terrain I
have come to think of as you.

Something about you must change,
now or in some unspeakably close time
when you do not remember this paraphrased
sentimental and wholly unjust accusation anymore,
when I cart around vestiges of,
now having smoked itself out to a cinder,
pencil shavings and lazy Monday afternoons.
I take it these too are parts of you.

It is spring.
I will stop talking about winter shortly,
because that is the right thing to do.
And neither you or anyone else
knows the speed limit of infidelity.