Alternate Account

 

I should explain

in the gothic decorum

of truth that I am

no different than I have

been, but remain troubled

in the dissonance of the pronoun.

Who is it that would present itself

to you as a voice: that gloved or

hooded assertion, dishonestly

anonymous.

Who is authorship otherwise

than a craving for union,

the exquisite politeness

of the isolated voice.

I feign that I walk at

night, but this is, more truthfully,

the swathing of black crape.

Dressed so. Wry melodrama

of whom? I claim

only my own civility.

But civility's monochromatic

wardrobe could yet perplex

whom I

adopt. The hidden and illicit

progeny of the interview

that did not come to pass

mourns itself off the

borrowings

of my

word or warrant.

 

 

 

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