It is a season to wander the trackless deserts
of emotional bewilderment
like a lost tortoise.
The dreams of us
have been incinerated
like unclaimed crime-scene corpses.
One hour, you were telling me
about the magical sparrows of sunrise
and before the day was through,
cutting my images out of photographs.
I laugh on alienated dingy streets
to avoid the drug dealers and prostitutes
watching me stagger and weep,
though, perhaps, they wouldn’t be compassionless
to such a defeated man.
At intersections, I gaze both ways
but, sometimes, I feel, I’ll keep standing in place
with no power or will to reach a different location.
Are you in love with him?
Then, I guess, I must be content
only seeing the summer dresses
that sway on a clothesline
or the ones stored away of you
that I’ll learn to suppress in time.
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