by Julian X  /  poetry  /  7 Dec 2007
The skies don't look like that anymore.
She regards him with eyes unsoiled,
in a manner paintings cannot capture
and that will not last the years.
When she lances harsh invectives,
each word surprises, stuns me to silence,
to perusal of each serraded syllable.
All hurricanes, generated spinning, already menacing,
burying our factories in water,
and all the cities are Venice now.
She left a copy of Utopia,
its pages all warped in the flood,
browned in waving lines like old ladies' hands.
I sit crying, grasping it,
the soil coming off in my hands,
knowing through tears this lost world was always parody.
I imagined then that it would rest, withered,
next to large, clean, mighty tomes,
unexplained on the shelf,
heart hidden in plain sight.
But when I moved, years later, I left it
sitting in an empty flat for the gods to play with,
destined for the rubbish bin or, by chance, some silt.
My wife knows nothing of this.
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