auto

and when the birds quit their song,

she said:

 

You have the soul of a poet.

But the discipline…

 

I know:

 

You have sat at the head

of an empty table, lit

candles for the dead,

 

and said – at length –

nothing –

 

to no-one; distracted

by the silences…

                of cicadas; lain

 

on the bed, spent

in the afterglow of…

                lightning? and,

 

as the morning, rose

alone, and the heart

beat like wild.

 

And yet…

 

It’s not enough to sing

for the wind fingering

the curtain; laid

on the unmade bed,

legs spread, drinking beer,

or playing solitaire

as the bugs crawl along

                                the ceiling.

 

I said: Ok,

fair enough.

 

Nov ’16

5 thoughts on “auto”

  1. I love this, Marco, the muse and poet, the poet flat out on the bed with a can of beer, rebuking her gentle chiding….It all drips with ‘classicism’, sunlight on the Aegean with those stanzas of various ’emptinesses’:

    You have sat at the head
    of an empty table, lit
    candles for the dead,

    and said – at length –
    nothing –

    to no-one; distracted
    by the silences…
    of cicadas; lain

    on the bed, spent
    in the afterglow of…
    lightning? and,

    as the morning, rose
    alone, and the heart
    beat like wild.

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