Sylvie left this note

Sylvie left this note

In the August fog:

The bearded poet reeks

of mud, and dry leaves.

He has been

fashioned to recite,

line by line,

only skipping

sentences

when the task

is too tiresome.

We will wait,

and we will wait again,

and all these soft and silent waiting evenings are being

ironed out on the porch

in the August fog.

We wait, and we wait

(an abandoned curtain is playing on the cornfields)

waiting to be seen.

still burning, love?

take care then,

to put me back onto that Great Stage

and give me a shove.

you’ll see-

ma, look! no, hands!

as proud as me!

(and I was likened to the scent of darkness

for as we passed the gray stone towers

I was fully fine to listen to

the songs they chanted after me

“STILL BURNING, LOVE?”

‘STILL BURNING LOVE?”

“STILL BURNING LOVE?”

“STILL BURNING AS WE WAIT?”)

But still we wait, and wait again,

and all these silent waiting evenings are being

ironed out on the porch in the August fog.