KEN T A YLOR


self-portrait as failing light


there was a time when the patterns that wheeled across your quiet did not fatten the refurbished


drama, in advance of drapery chosen and the alcove shaped to make certain dust fractured any hope


of dancing. and there is nothing you can offer now, not the woodcut prints of your heroes, nor the luster


of cantilevered promises to build what will only resemble a future of searing. it was love once,


played out with an elegant dexterity and promise of lithe imagining without the end work-shopped


to what a further committee wished for. but both witness to the continuous empty nets and absurd


glistening manufactured to compensate for lack, we argued about your remembrance of a motion


and the sugared cuckold bleeding out on the drive for anyone to see. but i’m not listening now. i am


thinking of the offstage geometry of skin and traffic of roman roundabouts and a russet field that passed


for wheat acquiescing to the pressure of furtive quilts before too much sun flattened dreaming.


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