‘What ‘To Be Continued’ Means’

We’re
Apparently preaching a passion without posters,
Ourselves composing the only devoted moment of romance
And this in a year you’d’ve held to have outlived
Emotional virginity (Ha! Humbug, huh?);                                                      Already cuckolding our own cork-screwed censors,
Understanding like actors what the other wanted to state in their séance.               Of celebratedly cerebral solitude, Sure.

Just as you’re not a Poet if you happen to be accessible you shouldn’t be a lover if you’re not unwise. And because nothing is necessary everything is astounding to everyone as it can be in love this is here to remind you so, So?

Let’s get Invited! To each other’s smeared festivals
Where you’ll quote Keats & Koenig & Kafka amidst the asylum’s show                 And I’ll do the infinite Isadora Duncan imitations I know best of all                         And the milky way where wends these words will unimpededly flow;                 Thus inflating my essence,
as you do with every regard that comes along to disavow all tenses, justifying my life-lingering affection for Edgar Degas’ openness                                                 (though I should affect Velazquez better). We’re neither seizers
nor seizures or free as the seas are,
and though none are needless, I confess
I couldn’t care less about carelessness
beyond that which scares us in all caresses,
Please.

I call upon my clichéd being to do you justice,                                                        In the era,
In synthesis,
Of dreams,                                                                                                                 And gladly it fails:                                                                                               Darling.
(phew)

(April 20, 2015)