This Place

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There is life here.

And there are seeds aflutter with
Gleeful songs and abstracted praises.
And a blind bacchante coruscates with abandon,
Dancing amid a night’s earnest welcome;
And children enthralled by oblivion,
Bought and sold by insular moments.

Here is a toast to a passing frame,
Of many a breath drawn, and taken away,
Of an eye for nicety at times,
And at times given to bland, tawdry components
Hastily-refined (for my conscience).

To a past extolled
This new perspective
Determines unforeseen positions,
Clarity of vision,
Decrepit memories of
Mistakes buried into misplaced oaths.

I seek the fugitive in all permanence,
Then I cloak it in aureate trappings
Of meandering satin.
This fervor bears witness
And is steeped in tonight’s rage.
But I love her
Albeit with bruised and disconsolate
Prayers yet to be uttered.

Art: “Les Beaux Jours”
Claude Carvin

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