Gold

What is it about the past that makes it seem so golden?  A few days ago, a month ago, last year – gilded and adorned on the walls; on the shield of a Roman soldier.  My friends and I walked these streets day-in-day-out for who knows how long and all that changed was the lines on our faces and the toughness of our skin. 

When Maggie came back that summer I met her in a bar just off the river and I drank until I couldn’t see straight; then I drank until I couldn’t talk right; and then I drank until I couldn’t feel. 

We phoned (well, I phoned her) at the hotel near the station.  She wouldn’t speak but I insisted.  I insisted on it.  I insisted on seeing her.  I wanted to know that she was there – for real, in the flesh.  I wanted her to love me one last time.   

Lines Written Upon Reading Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey"

What I can only describe
as heaps and heaps of crap, sprawled,
on the floor, precisely,
where it shouldn’t be:
Last year’s memos;
this year’s forgotten notes;
Letters from before.

And within the debris
the shiny, surviving
trinket thought
long destroyed
beckons.

Lines written beyond the horizon
or on the bridge; or in
the ivy cottage;
to my dear sister, brother, friend:
sincere love, envy, lust for
a dark lady.

And they remind me of things
unlived; dreams undreamt.
I have a home in a Renaissance song,
in a Romantic river.

In the shadows of Tintern Abbey,
I too, see myself.