STEPHEN DUNN
Not them. Not even with the best
binoculars on the bluest day
could I have seen it coming.
Not with scrutiny’s microscope,
or with the help of history or gossip.
Of all people, not them.
They hadn’t fallen in love with others.
Not even a night of drink
or proximity’s slow burn drove them
to lapse, say, with a coworker.
It means no one can know what goes on
in the pale trappings of bedrooms,
in anyone’s secret, harrowed heart.
It makes time itself an executioner—
a fact I always knew
applied to couples
whose bodies contradicted
their Darling this, Honey that,
and even some who exhibited
true decency and respect.
But this is a mockery, a defeat.
My friends were perfect, perfect.
“Every married couple appearing together
in public is comic,” Adorno said,
and I wrote “Stupid!” in the margin.
Now they’re broken up, finished.
Oh Adorno, you son of a bitch,
you perspicacious bastard,
sometimes what a cold eye sees
lasts longer than any of us.