If Orpheus Were Honest With Her

Today I am afraid of ghosts, the things
I searched for in you, sang of you.
Shining hazard, roundabout,
piece of myself you’ve never seen: never
your somewhat puzzled self, combing out
your westering hair, shaking your head
at something you’ve just read.
(Days and nights I spent as
contradiction, tattered flag
which now goes by your name.)
I look back or don’t look back,
I can’t remember now
how I will write it down, or come
to think such words were mine.
The poems that ratified your loss
would have been self portraits
stripped of all defense. (There you are
pinned to the lyric distance, small
point of reference I call love.) I’d stare
into your eyes, fall somewhere
in between, while you
faded further into someone else’s
underworld, a flickering affliction
the color of a muse.