The plea of youth! The movement of the flame
in the evening breeze, the clavicle and shoulder,
the lung and breast. I can hear the few years
the argument is built upon, the architecture
of the space, the narratives that are woven
by text. She is the object of the chapters
from that old novel, the scaffolds of characters
and themes interwoven. I am getting older
and the fire doesn't touch me. She is leaving
the room like ashes leave the fire, like
boats leave harbor, like words leave the mouths
of poets. As the hours turn into months
and months into long years, the aging justice
she represents becomes a consumed fuel.
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