Life With Horace

poetry & essays


Sans Bliss

We were long split atoms even then, the possibility of us had ricocheted,  echoes of competing thoughts composted into a white sound mask. Inexperienced, I flung my satin stole of certainty over each shoulder, and  rushed away, convinced I was right. But so utterly wrong headed, ignorant of the deeper dance of lust and love that finally shook its head, and left to visit other lives. Memories of touch by tantalizing milkweed silk, of hearing a fluted thrush note, fading every time I would have ventured back.

for SG