A Lovers Tryst

Don’t hold me to blame. The road was never straight nor the wind mild of frame Your bedside monitor screeches one incessant, contrary acoustic. Giving notice to all abroad that time has moved on elsewhere Let me raise you up and brush away the marks that play a cracked tune on your broken parts, like a drummer breaking sticks The glass of your eye holds the drink of my heart, where champagne bubbles try to revive an empty space no longer receiving its rhythmic pulse The mood of your limbs , restrained by dysfunctional form and snared by aseptic plastic, bring a darkness to this room. And, like American Indians encircling a wagon train, Dante's allegorical limbo encircles your bed, pining for your life renunciated husk