Today I am afraid of ghosts, the things <br /> <br />I searched for in you, sang of you. <br /> <br />Shining hazard, roundabout, <br /> <br />piece of myself you’ve never seen: never <br /> <br />your somewhat puzzled self, combing out <br /> <br />your westering hair, shaking your head <br /> <br />at something you’ve just read. <br /> <br />(Days and nights I spent as <br /> <br />contradiction, tattered flag <br /> <br />which now goes by your name.) <br /> <br />I look back or don’t look back, <br /> <br />I can’t remember now <br /> <br />how I will write it down, or come <br /> <br />to think such words were mine. <br /> <br />The poems that ratified your loss <br /> <br />would have been self portraits <br /> <br />stripped of all defense. (There you are <br /> <br />pinned to the lyric distance, small <br /> <br />point of reference I call love.) I’d stare <br /> <br />into your eyes, fall somewhere <br /> <br />in between, while you <br /> <br />faded further into someone else’s <br /> <br />underworld, a flickering affliction <br /> <br />the color of a muse.<br /><br />Reginald Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/if-orpheus-were-honest-with-her/
