I remember the summer
that my parents crumbled.
The anger
etched upon my fathers brow;
the shame
on the end of my mothers
quick clipped sentences.

It was two years
before the affair came to light,
but the August sun blazed
never the less

I haunted the halls after dark
quietly creeping along the walls
silent specter
adjusting the thermostat
as low as it could go.

I didn’t know what,
yet I knew;
it was all wrong.
Mother knew it too,
and father just waited.
Waited for it to catch up.
Waiting as the tired marsh hare waits,
knowing that the alligator is near,
yet too tired.
Too tired to fight the inexorable.

My family grew cold,
and all the while
the night sweltered
leaving the Spanish tiles sweating
as the faithful air conditioner
chugged on.

There is an old painting in Umbria.
On the bottom,
a skeleton warns
that all men must die.
I
for one
take no umbrage with this,
for after
looking into her eyes
what else remains?

It had been three years then,
but in many ways
it seemed so much longer than that

I could still taste you
when my eyes were closed;
hear your laughter
between the night and darkness.

I can’t remember the exact instant,
but I knew;
I knew that you wouldn’t be back.
It was the same as when I realized
our dear Czar wouldn’t return in the spring.

I stood in the outer darkness:
peering into your inner warmth.

I had always longed for your light,
but the yearning crept to crescendo.

Your skin sang like the song bird,
whom has entered through the open window,
and yet as he finds himself temporarily
warm and dry, still knows that
he will make his exit when he pleases.

Oh, how I wanted your gypsy soul,
and how I needed to taste the sweet treason pouring forth from your lips.

Yet, as the last of the light lingered
I silently stole away
safe in the knowledge of the dark.

Death drifted ever so slowly
through the late August swelter

I watched you return from the lake
the stars silently blazing behind you

The moon was so gentle
like deer in the vagueness of dawn

In my voyeurism I could tell
that the fire was dripping out of you

I thought about Spring in Miami
I remembered when I still loved you.

You looked up and were startled by me
I smiled and you sat and held my hand

There is a space between the vagueness of dawn,
and the horror of the morning sun light
where I imagine that you wait for me.

In the dream you greet me with a smile,
and I pay you back in tears;
for it’s the currency that I owe you.
When your parents came to tell the news
your father wept bitterly in my arms,
yet I held him stoically cold.
My life was organized and compartmentalized.
There was no space for your death.

Life passed me by,
But now that it’s gone
I just can’t look away,
And thus I often look for you.
Dreams don’t know of finality

It was there that we sat as summer simmered;
Autumn, a shadow off in the distance.
I slowly nibbled after a bitter quince,
as she sat in the shade softly,
a wicked grin upon voluptuous lips.

“Can you share it with me?”
What is there to share with anyone?
“The reason for your smile.”
But the smile is already shared.
“I want to know anyway.”
I smile because I hate him.
“You should smile for love.”
They are the same currency really.
“How exactly do you mean?”
The other side of the same coin.

The Brazilian sands became too hot,
and we strayed into the town for dinner.
Bosa-nova narrated our meal,
yet we departed earlier than expected,
our love turned suddenly brutal.

I sat alone in the orchard as fall lurked.
In the vagueness of twilight I saw.
I saw her feral smile while she sambaed.
I remembered her untamed laugh.
I shed a tear for her lost artistry.