CONSOLATION

No grief group
or shining language
will efface secrets
in undelivered letters
or your once repented chance
meeting last year,
you surmise
that your fate was set
in a mirage of fallen flesh
now spirited away
by a series of mum voices,
yet your day dream recurs
and spills over a coverlet
of blank verse
from proverbial winds
which will not leave you
by the windowpane
filled with a dying pulse
of a short lived
morning glory,
yet you need to exchange
a bent inclination
to surprise your own words
of all faux pas of speech
and get over
a lover's third glance
toward your inscribed
unsettled body language
on similar shapeless days.