In the pre-regret phase, when I was flammable,
inviolate, a fortress, you could say
I was too particular and when I say particular
I mean fussy, and by fussy I mean
the period of self-study was a bad piano lesson.
Maybe a sweetness came over me, the dreamy
madness of darkening next to someone.
I had the swagger of someone
who made plans for the woodlands.
Maybe I was just a terrible shithead
with the patina of a principled person,
but in those days I had no idea
what ciphers we could be, what souvenirs,
what sad little bunnies, and there
the story veers, since there’s no myself here,
or there’s a chorus of voices vying for attention.
If I could sing I’d want to distill the thrill
of her, and more I’d want that lilting playful voice
to stay with me, all the sing-song iambs
that forestall the crash of loving
too much, hanging on too long. How can I
embrace the spell-makers and their hovering
cherubim, their harps and gladioli,
the gods who should have looked after me?