DUANE LOCKE

Editor back-issues, poetry

Solitude or Isolation

Learnt late the truth,
Late was alone
As alone as when
With another
In a dark balcony
Or at a dark dinner,
Candle lit and dim.
Mendacity, the mother virginal,
Mastered the poppies and my life.
At the fine feasts,
Mendacity the host, the servant,
The friend, the lover,
Deserter, betrayer.
At these ballistic banquets
There was not as in Veronese,
A small, spotted dog on paws
Under the tablecloth
To sniff and eat the crumbs.
The cardiac malfunction
Of the reticent, false fable
That is transported in skeleton form
By serrations of the unknown superpower

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