poetry

Station-ery / Station-ary

And if I could,

I would ride that train –

as if I had every swaggering right.

 

And the station-

ery I once wrote to you gladly,

never madly,

would substitute-

fully,

and ever so duti-

fully,

regain itself wise with the station-

ary of watching you come closer

from the afar where I would plant myself,

but never decant myself

without your kindly glance.

And happenstance, one day we might

recover

alongside

the station-

ery that flowered in both of us,

that day we travelled

station-

ary yellow and grand to Liverpool-

land, and talked of future plans,

and arrived at sad and broken conclusion:

for that day was that day when it ended,

this everything –

forever.

 

And if I could remake that day,

maybe I would choose

no other way: but I would, even so, leave

the door open to friendship continuing.

For although your skin and smells

and telling words,

and fabulous heards

and gentle kisses

and furious blisses, too, as

overwhelmingly well-

ing and tell-

ing and roll-

ing and steal-

ing, are all of these things my life is

so much poorer

for having missed out upon tragical – never actually

magical – it’s your letters of hindsight

and observations real

which mostly I have lost to my madness

of terrible bad crude.

 

The madness of

the man who wanted worldly victory

more than homely sensibility.

And so I miss your long

gently white trailing fingers on mine,

intertwined out of waves of almost

mathematical sine –

even as, right now, I find no rhyme

to properly express

how very much this sense of loss

has cost my last thirteen years.

 

And although I will no longer yearn

for that which passed

into the past

of ended last,

and although my heart will now end up in the

lap of some cool and fabulous woman of sure beautiful

other,

the curiosity of spirit

and the anxiety of will-it-now – which

you taught me so wonderingly to value and

appreciate – shall never be replaced

by any other soul, nor by the

caught and told of any other night.

And for that, you are irreplaceable,

dear K.

For that you never can be true remade

via the touch and silences of any

other body.

 

So live it well,

and sweller than well.

You are finer than grand ever was fabled,

and so I’m glad I did sense

and was able to witness

your wonderful, unearthly, unendingly astonishing

stand.

 

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