I caught her looking beautiful in Venice,
then at the helm of a sailboat somewhere.
I miss seeing her, I am a despairing lover
too hung up to recover sanity at any price.
I never get to see her now, it’s like I’m blind.
Why can’t the masters of reality let us live
our years the way we need to learn to be kind.
Such a life includes the body and eye of love.
I was always where she was. Here winter
always lasts longer than by the Outer Banks.
I want to find her in the skin of the deer
she became. I am so old I must give thanks
to the magicians of distance that is timeless,
whose genie always comes around to me
to say she’s out there frolicking but chaste,
waiting for me to find reality’s lock and key.
Thus I despair. I give up. I gnaw the bones
of my body. She is surely too far away
for love’s sentiments to travel, its moans
rising out of the moon’s sleep with the sea.
(22 December 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander