Our Montage

Collective fragments pool
As scattered objects gathered
In my rudimentary picture:
All I amass are numbers,
All I miss is everything
Inside the volatile structure
Of a broken tape rewriting.
For when you removed
Your physical self, you left
A grainy smudge
Over your half of the picture,
Painted over the hearth
Of my drawing heart,
A frozen tear withstanding.
The image whole is ripped,
Like the passage
Of water that threatens separation-
Our sacred separation.
We set up this montage,
You and I, though
Our team stopped at the hinge
Of a bedroom door shut;
I’ve painted over the scene,
Innumerous countless times-
Only in the metaphor
Of my mind, not the
Internal system. Care,
A fragment there,
Along with its gaudy
It is all that I can gain
From the terrible decoration
Of nostalgia:
Now in the windows,
Or the talking halls;
Then in the secret hiss,
My exhausted sigh and kiss.
To that world I pay
A petty tribute in oils,
In parchment scribbles and in
Wavering notes of my remarks;
I whisper how they- slices-
Could have formed a whole,
If we both wanted the same.
It was never more than an image
Trying to be a patch over
The life torn into a hole.

The End

362 comments about this poem Feed