MUNCHEN

The bar was crowded and I could not hear
anyone’s epigrams except my own.
The jukebox was too loud. So on the phone,
We ran through highlights later, but I fear

that I improved my lines and she did too.
Perhaps stole someone else’s. People die
half of our table’s gone ā€“ and we don’t lie
so much as ornament scraps that are true.

We do not want them gone into the dark
those days of youth and brilliance. We rehearse
our memories or coax them like a nurse
back into ember life. And if a spark

could bring flame back, would I want to return
relive it all, the wit, the hurt, the burn?

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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2 Responses to MUNCHEN

  1. cmcmck says:

    Yes indeed!

    And since we’re on that sort of thing:

    The bombsite riverside dereliction,
    Wine soaked nights of ureality.
    Have our fantasies passed so soon into mist?
    Candles seen in the gloom,
    Single star in a stormwashed sky.
    All that is certain is the rain
    Washing our upturned faces.

  2. anef says:

    That is so true.

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