Three Vignettes

I. A Downtown Scene

Of late I’ve taken her through certain incapacitated streets, 
A subway ride through alleys—beggars scavenge on their knees,
Her lacquered boots upon the slippery streets, 
This toothless grin. 

We sit before a banquet, and the candle flits, 
Valour in another way, refracted light, martini glasses, 
A bowl of olives, caviar; she performs a laugh.
We have risen in our ways and means and ends and no more threats.
Cashmere dress to tantalise the cold.
The jazzy voices are a shadow all around us, but we are not
So frivolous. But do not forget the check. 

II. An Uptown Room 

She laughs another cheeky hallelujah. 
We sit apart to line a meadow of these unbesotted sheets.
And on the wall I watch her antiquated pendulum, 
A sempiternal figment in an undulating path. She said, 
“It’s a lulling just to sleep beneath its tick…” 
Fifty-seven Thursdays.
I cannot count, but she keeps a leather book, 
Leafing through the pages, counting all the wagers 
We have made to stay.

We have seen a star suspended in the sky, 
Glimmer weak, yet make a wish, dissolves too quick. 
In New York we call these aeroplanes. 
She nibbles on a piece of chocolate, bittersweet, 
“But darling, that was for the cake.” 
Through the window buildings look like cut up shards of paper.
An emerald piece of costume jewelry tumbles 
To the floor. But I do not understand the worth of diamonds.
The fragments never fit together, and the people 
Wax and wane. In a dollhouse furniture is much too 
Delicate, yet here where beds support an act of two, 
We have discovered something else that’s broken. 

III. An Undeserving Window 

And what is blasphemous in one philosophy is in another 
Noble. I have always lived in an ideal of Western thought. 
A copy of an essay lies upon the desk. 
In my domain the radiator wards off all the cold. 
Cold is just an adjectival word to represent some facets
Of reality. My voice—it is not cold yet sad, but who around 
Can tell of all the difference. Outside, the gust of cold 
Assaults my cheeks. Indifference is another name for 
Tiredness. Her dreams are all that they have meant 
To me. A word must necessarily embody one societal 
Construction, and to deconstruct an element of sanctity
Is to project upon a baseless matter all our elemental chords. 
In this weighty monologue we conjure up a 
Dialogue wherein the masses tell a tale that conforms to all the 
Jests, and parallel illusions are wedged inside their breasts. 
I await a single moment of delusive contemplation. 
We have beheld our protests flourish in imaginary vision. 
My parade is never black nor white, yet it exists a single 
Category supposedly more blessed. We have known a 
Paramour who stands for validation, yet in our days we 
Exist invalidated and invulnerable, afraid to open up our 
Chests for fear of finding substance undeniable. 
In my protracted indecision I have known a life in motion. 
We flitter through a stage precarious, and with every step the 
Brickwork flails. I am falling into an abyss. 
You shall see me through a kaleidoscopic notes, 
The wisps of unreality pedantically preserved. 
I shall sprinkle all the pieces through an unentangled wave,
Reminding you and me of the unsteady rise and then collapse. 
The seashells whisper yet another message through the parapet. 
We have wished to see an island far away, yet on this island we 
Have seen our whimper and decay. This is not the absolute
You had envisioned. Fear not variations. On this island 
We have seen our share of disembodied people. 
They do not know where they are headed. Their passion 
Lies within dehors and le dedans is desolation. 
In my desolation you were but a caterwauling butterfly.
I know that you shall see the crack inside the window 
Every time you close your eyes. Your eyes were pearls. 
I have taken them inside my sullied coffer. 
Remember me each time you close your eyes, 
And blink another fifty-seven times.