You
can feign ignorance
all that you want,
but the truth is
it always happens
like this:
there is at first
a burst,
a bubbling rush
of enthusiasm—
a flair
of righteous ardor—
after which
any giddy thought
of advancement
fizzles out—
or else burns,
even beyond the traumatized victim's
ability
to identify.
*
to deny the bitter-sweetness
of a tragic complicity
such as this?
That the long-sought-after
if found to be the inverse
shape of what's gone missing.
Each night,
it seems impossible
yet trivially true to me:
you are not here.
But where
is "not here?"
Anyplace I don't exist.
