Until

I think, therefore
the world beats
within me
and you, my life
is yours – and yours mine
if you let it.

See the leaves fall;
the water ripples
the woman cries
the man howls
the phone rings –
and rings –
until nothing’s left.

You were here until you weren’t
you loved me until you didn’t
you called out my name –
again and again –
until you went silent
and all went dark.

“That was that” is a
phrase, saying, idiom
for the shared condition of
history, families, days
falling by the wayside
like twelve dollars
for the shittiest glass
of wine you’ll ever have
in one of those New York Irish bars.

(“It’s what you get
for ordering wine in an Irish bar.”
There’s no point in inaccessible language;
otherwise, why make language?)

The world was recognizable.
It all made sense.
Until Socrates invited the poets
to run rampant – cause chaos! – to invent
the Protestants saw themselves one day
walking along the pond
and let light be (there):
unrefracted, crystal clear
as day by day is the way it goes
or
as the Boomers say
that’s just the way it is
like when time stood still
and then turned on its head
in a flash you were (there):
unalloyed, your voice rang –
and rang –
until it rang no more
like a wisp of smoke.

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