by Andrew Brown
We love you like idiots, your teetering meshed
vanilla breath and conflagration, and are suffused
by desire, every straining bit of flesh
aligned with your motley fading visions. If just
once you didn’t disappear, we’d transform our lust
for proximity into belonging, go fresh
into unlit territory. If every
advance wasn’t retreat, enclave of ancient bent light,
we wouldn’t regard your loss so anxiously.
Instead, our lips still slip awkwardly, tense up too
suddenly. Indicate, spent day, what to do with our few
remaining moments. Share your sensibility
about drifting in time. It’s not too late.
Guru of the vast horizon! Pontificate!
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