A POEM BEGINNING WITH A LINE BY DUNCAN

As if it were a scene made-up by the mind

so difficult for a day to find its sources

as though yearning were an answer to jags

immediacy gives to description’s weight a pause

a succubus waltzing on the head of a pin

& the wind turns back the words I spit in my face

as if to gold-leaf a final cause upon desire

around anomalies wander & compasses spin w/wrongs

suffering imagination’s strange directions

remorse cuts a pathology of its own experience

certainty bound to consequential strife

abandoning the deuce you know for now

wonder arrives at my door & knocks bashfully

as if she were a scene made-up by wishful cares

aging gifts a knowing I’d rather return

terms of convenience conceded in a private room

distrustful of scenes & disembodied minds

the next time I say goodbye will be my last