Proved Wrong
No one knows what it costs to write like this
Sodden snow falling garbed deceptive white
Burying my dreams under some tardy spring, while
The dogs of winter raven and tear them all apart
No one knows what it feels to love like this
Cordoned off from some eye-sparkling stream
Caught in the dialed scum of circling emotions, the
Flotsam adultery’s anecdotes somehow set adrift
No one knows how to live a life that isn’t theirs
It just interloped, defining one obscure night
When passion fogged the windows of the heart, and
A simple blue-skinned satin fall turned fatal
Now Collins’ quatrains make their cursed descent
Into the dishabille of poetry in motion
I had subscribed and read his journal through, but
He never bothered to describe me once
Michener, though prosaic, made a poet’s point or two
About this violent, greedy land of ours
Still, he loaned me his key to Raffles, for
Investigating beachfronts as investments
Just in time so rising tides would prove me wrong
Too little, too late; even now I hear some prophetic wind
As it sings along earth’s slowing, tottered axis
Eerily, in harmony, with love’s fading epode fire
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