It’s ok that I am going out like a candle. Clean metaphors like pressed clothes, all of them fine makes addressed, a permanently raised glass, love, on a ship perhaps, the world waving, or the best of them. It is not ok that it is the world that’s leaving me.
I hand my teeth down, no one takes them, there are no college kids left to believe in strangers anymore, take up their flags, ensorcelled by seeming context & strange nocturnal tuitions paid in dissent, rapture and yes, amelioration.
This place has stayed neat with me in it. I have protected things… things of which you can have no idea, things whose ideas will not come again, their valkyries fled, a diaspora of gods, kings and vassals, the whole parade of these my insignificant things. They were my wine, my rope to hang myself with.
I will not imagine you. I was imagined. I will not simper, the shakiest hand in the riot, I will not ease meekly, subdued to wait a time for meaning, for museum glass, nitrogen filled air, greater value indeed, greater than needed. You will pass me like so much meaning in dirt.