Of Our Occasional Congress
I have nearly outrun myself, although the version of me I left behind,
in the burned out bunker of a marriage, does still walk this earth;
- shaken, stunned, and scarred; ashen, uncertain and ashamed -
alone but not alone, adrift but not adrift and not altogether forsaken,
for we indeed still talk from time to time in cautious conversations
carried on in a quiet mind, between the beats of our Siamese heart
where no one can glimpse the content of our occasional congress.
There, in the telepathy of emotion, a historical and less hysterical
fiction has been constructed to bridge the gaps of a conjoined annal,
so that I may know the complete continuity of myself on either side
of the imaginary, invisible, yet indelible line I drew between us both,
leaving behind a shell of a man for the chimera I cannot fully shed.