Only because
it's now been
so long, I'm not even
sure what I should
picture myself
missing anymore.
Most days—
which is to say, specifically
during business hours—
which is to say, most
of the time I'm awake—
the writer in me—
hunched at a table, comforted only
by the aroma of coffee
and by punching
some keys
and seeing the immediate
results on a screen—that person
most sorely laments
a lack
of sonorous diction
and syntax: the
you and me, the
she and I, the
hers and my, and so forth.
In other words—it's not the images
which are missing;
it's the style
and the pattern
of certain, very useful
idiomatic expressions.
It's just later on,
after night falls,
that I tend to finally
knock off
to sleep and dream—
through that hazy poetic halo
of pensive noise
and ruminative distortion
for five or six
or maybe seven seasons
at a stretch
purely about the face
of any
particular person
or place
or thing
or belief
or reason.
