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by David Hunter Sutherland

You occur in random sequels,
speak in exclusives,
talk a torpid metaphor,
unhinge each strained preposition
with transitive temper.
Literate your charms of singular inflection:
drop the matter, drop the act, let go !
you said, "it's done."
High on you high wired walkout
of flash and fanfare,
stark in your son et lumiere,
so bright... so bright,
and crass in this flare of tears
falling... falling

Into the irreducibles
of turnstiles and empty stations,
lulled into midnight encounters
and amorous interjections
of person, place or thing,
now gone ! Gone the expressionless
art of loving you
and memories of anothers' countenance
still speaking... speaking

Reprinted with permission by Karen Dowell for Two Dog Press. From A Year on the Avenue, Athens Avenue Poetry Circle. © Copyright 1998 by the Athens Avenue Poetry Circle. All Rights Reserved. Originally appeared in The Fairfield Review.

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Document last modified on: 02/12/1998

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