When in the boyhood of twenty I foresaw a seven-
week saunter to and beyond an apotheotic St. Louisan
as masterwork of byplay in both enthralling
that callipygian figment into fifth base and how
to pace-and-think the peace-of-mind salvation of all
future metaphysicians - or mankind - or one collegial sadsack,
I now look back upon it all as the proper sanity-martyrdom
and Hinckleyan desolation it was and always will have been.
But no more.
You win. I love you, and you solely. I'm more than willing
to give the ten-year spectral gal of our unity a life's remainder
worth of silence and at last for my own sake rather than hers,
For sake of withering gaps in crests upon an isthmus,
this quay-smirry autumn sea slipping
quenching sibilance some single day behind
and nearer to our sky's cindering firmament of loving --
loving without need of glorifying the flaws and the flawless,
without need of seduction's narratory merit,
without need of checkered or at once sated desires,
without need of medieval cavalier deeds.
The simple, sure love
which anchors to the
gulf of heavens and
pillars from waves unto
the autumn seabed.