—for Wallace Stevens
The opulence of the room
defies the inner man.
Your words, skyrockets
lighting the dark with
flashes of the unexpected,
escape from a corridor
herding your vast bulk
into the province of alone.
The hand caressing
satinpolished wood
receives no acknowledgment;
ceramic is cold on the flesh;
the life you want hangs
in baroque frames,
reminding you of all you traded
for the promise of a love
that faded long ago.
The narrow bed barely contains
your giant’s body full of
Pennsylvania dreams never lived;
this feast for the senses
is a beggar’s banquet for the heart.
