The imagined future, the picture she took
in the hotel mirror, the curvature of stomach
and anxious morning. I traced the golden hair
of Laura, remembered the breeze in river oaks
and wondered about virtue. The flowered branch,
the petals on a bough, the fictive stories
of magic realism. I thought I contained her
with an infinite intellect, apprehended her
with a poem or a weird sutra. I have not
an image that does justice, this realized past,
this conceived present; I have imagined
the parting lips, the moving tongue and teeth,
the language of thighs. But yet, this conceit
seems doomed to failure in a limited song.
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