Happy Hour In The Monastery

I walked away from her in the street.

I would never see her again.

My cumstains on her mattress faded,
they became insignificant.
Genetic dust dissipated.
Seasons disintegrated.
And my scent would occasionally haunt
her soul in dreams
where she’d see me back in Mexico,
in the early part of the century.

Then, the economy came and erased her.
It exhausted her with its charades
and she made a very concerted effort
to try and fulfill it.

I know that really she’s just a human
with wildflower blue and blooming eyes,
little specks of yellow within them.

Ultimately, all this is because the Gods
are delusional,
full and unfull of life,
things that bloom and never know to bloom.

My place with her veined hands,
chasing a hound dog up dirt piles,
skipping rocks across rivers
and eating one last bowl of
saffron and champagne mussels
is
gone.
Simply, simply gone.

But, I know she’s still there.
Unhappy.
Loyal.
Gathered.
Frozen as the young woman was when I met her.
The frozen face of daydream beauties,
the frozen face of magazine models.

I take my coat off again this evening,
in this still, cold and old house in Texas
that I believe
is
a solitary outpost at the edge of a world
for those who no longer have any feelings.

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