She married, her heart
so nearly blank
you would have thought you could
see yourself there as
in a mirror, read there
the one sentence
you need not
spell out; that is
to us illegible.
You were not impatient
enough. How many years
would it take,
and then how many
to circle the earth
blindfold, your faith
in emptiness, until
the Prince of Nowhere should
summon you to walk
one evening in the ballroom
of a palace swaying with
costumed ghosts, rented
from an expensive past?
Your friend, the angry
poet, is not here
to learn, as you are; but language
is gone, a sailing
of gowns across endless stages, a swirling
as of snowflakes, and the cold
moon stares. Why did you do it?
The question is
of no importance, but what did you
think it meant, when you
fired blanks, when you
fired into the snow?
Delay, delay. But
no matter. All are dead now.
The Prince writes no more letters.
She is yours.
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