The Women
Women are gathering,
collectively moving
in ever narrowing circles
around the cloudy orbit
of my psyche.
Both ghosts and the living
revolve ever nearer
all intent upon one purpose.
Never much the womanizer
I allowed women in.
Some played me
on the shoulder of a dark cello,
some loved me as best they could.
White flags and red flags
waved on a common field
leading inevitably
to disorderly retreats.
Toads evolved
into eagles and flamingos,
then regressed back to tadpoles.
Loathing could easily melt
to obsession,
sometimes appearing
as that opaque moonglow
often mistaken for love
at a distance.
Now the women
circle my life closer and closer,
not to menace
or forgive, or renew a romance,
but to close those broken circles
love makes
when it breaks up with itself.
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