Narrative Nightmare                                          

            At the beginning

            I lifted the stones in the standing pool of your wordless grace
            When I thought you weren’t looking
            And tracked your pupils when I nudged you casually into the past
            Wincing as they flew at times askance
            I measured the beats between our kisses
            Always worrying about the music you’d made with others.

            Then I scoured your favourite books for clues and found
                   Older men who had ruined themselves for girls,
                   Younger men who drowned;
                   Boisterous guerrilla poets who shared their women
                   And attacked each other over style;
                   Lovers who evaporated or united on the wings of a whim . . .
            The wet streets glistened amber under the lights
            As the cold moved in
            And during the vast middle silence of
            My coffee hours before the dawn
            I lined up the vectors and packed my bags
            It was a long long time before I realised we’d been fashioning a narrative anew
            And far too late to turn back


            Emanuel E. García, Leaf Thoughts, One Hundred Poems2013