You remind me
of tiny diamonds on the Ivory Coast, handfuls of splendor
slipped through my fingers,
and the Atlantic's muted roar against shore of my dreaming heart
breaking wise to eternity
without a man like you.
You remind me
of the one big break to land on Broadway blown,
a young girl sleeping late but dreaming she sings,
a broken clock seals fate in suburbia's sterile coffin.
Jets scream,
startling illusions over a field of halos,
angels faces upturned, gold, sigh an unrelenting dirge.
See how he fades from her.
See how he fades into weeping.
You remind me
of time strutting the Second Line to New Orleans jazz,
drums and brass at Desire's funeral
while alleys of women drained of blood sanctified slump
in monsters' arms,
smiling in death's rapture.
You remind me
of a mirror, hung high in my mother's house,
dimmed with neglect, reshaping reflection
to shadows and regret.
See how we fade from love.
See how we fade.