Je Regrette
Ainsi, realite, le plat vide, encore,
(here is where you come back all autochrome
lumiere, lit flesh and knowing eyes.) Et Encore,
l’interdit n’est pas le miene, ne plus. (No, I summon
the Cheshire, the Ouroboros, the dog called Nukka,
part wolf part goddess of death.) Enchanter is to enchant.
Oublier is to forget. (Let there be light by the ladies’ room
in that bar, let there be light in our bed, where I wrote
above: Amaryllis, where you wrote: Peace, girl, love.)
Le plat, il est vide. Maintenant j’oublie pourquoi je
suis ici sans– (We strung lights in the tent for my
birthday, Saturn’s return, the year I was meant to die
but didn’t, to my surprise but not yours.) Tu oublies,
non? Ici, I wrote: Your art looks like someone
doing a math problem that does not know math.
Ici, you wrote: I love you, Shannon. Look at the walls,
the writing is there, or has it gone? Has Mike come with
his acetone and his pail and scrubber, has our friend in
his previous role, come back to take it from me (us?) now,
as he narrates our demise (le fin) in that weary-hearted
Shakespearean monologue. Il est le fin? Is it the end?
Il est n’est pas le miene? It is not mine?
Pourquoi?! elle demand (she asks)
et porquoi, il a demand (he asked)
But I knew. And I know.
shannon moore 6/9/10
