Early Morning Credo

[A moody little piece of poetry, it seems more like an attempt at creating atmosphere than anything else. This also came out of the same romantic explosion/disaster mentioned in other posts, notably Broken Utterly (e.g., self-pity) and Napoleon's Russian Offensive. While those two poems reek of personal chaos and wild emotional thrashing, this one is calm and meditative by comparison.]

Early Morning: Credo
(or: Magic is not Enough)

i was talking with you again after all
the bars had closed down for the silken night
the words shooting splinters between us
the philtre type words i tried to use
had no power and fell behind us

strange chords vibrated in the air
eked out on the wall in #2 pencil
as we continued our beloved dialectic
on emotional definition and the meaning
of heartblood pumping strongly

dead poppies on the corner as we
slide past our conversation halted
in reverence the moment of silence
extending for five blocks as we
inhale the fragrance of their essence

all the centuries call out like
ophelia from the slick river surface
speaking to us on the length of
endurance magnified by the present
dead and just flotsam on the top

i believed talking could alleviate
the triphammer tension mounting in
our souls but only fools count on
anything and i should have known
we were in deep up to our weak necks

you wouldn't look into my face
and my hands twisted mindlessly
as we strode making their own
eloquent statements very querulously
telling of the yearning of the heart

our dreams lost in the first sunrays
as we come to the front door of the apartment
we enter and the sun blinds us through
the picture window looking over the city
we gaze at each other for a moment quietly

we retire still not understanding

March, 1980
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