Wait. To you, she's “La Lopez”. To me, “Jen”, always.
Doyenne of “Anaconda”. A date, indeed!
You’d have me narrate the gravamen,
say how it was? She was a ten. Great, she seemed.
Or perhaps an eight. But never again!
Well, she doesn’t like real men. Cheapskate, too.
I’ll tell you straight, it all went bandy when,
as our train pulled out of Penn, to celebrate ‘us’,
she called her lawyer. I hate zen precepts,
but marriage? With no debate? Comedienne!
What is it? One may venture only
that it is the fullness of non-entity,
to call and wait for my response—
gravamen hovering, always there
and not to be content;
yet patient in its timelessness alone,
suspends infinity above my head
to render words a useless toy,
and bring about in me
a tumult that I could not do without.
For in that vortex of the undefined
is all the vast unknown, undreamed,
unfathomed truth transcending peace,
dissolving thrones, ceding eminence
to just one evening that a helpless God
let slip away.
Sic transit gloria.
~
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