Thursday, September 6, 2012


                                                                      to Karen Lee Clarke

I could no longer write of what’s closest,
only of the far away country.
There is an end to our days we imagine.
I would never know the language of death,
I want this life to go on. I need
her love to last–shall I say forever?
And yet the mark is on the wall, nihil
and its sad lies, the end of joy.
I will not fail your troth. Nor mine. I love
as always not one but many.
I walk again. The pleasure of the earth
a foot trods, now one before the other
falls true. My friends are all dead or dying.
The mind can not be so wise as the heart.
How can I imagine love many years
after, why do I wish to go far back
for one day when all my life is lived here
with the gypsy, the woman of music
in her fingers caressing black and white
piano keys creating sound that lifts
this body high as the dais to sing.

(6 September 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander

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