THURSDAY MORNING

While light
has fractured
the pantry window
we listen to Bach's
Coffee Cantata
after a parlor game
of morning scrabble,
an informed delivery
brings me postcard news
from an ingenuous hour
filled with dark shades
when with a single heart
of regrets will remember
Guinevere as any good Arthur
with many men courting her
as she deserved the royal seal
for her gift of abstract painting
revealed in all those shifting
good times at Long beach
exonerating me for acting out
for her in my own paranoia
all the characters in my plays,
swimming out by the lighthouses
harbors and towers of Babel
now I hear she has gone
an expiation of the passing
of a beautiful swam near
our sail boats in the East
off the Coast of the Marianas
during an adolescent race
now surrenders in my sunrise
with a missing cloudless distance
for shadows on a snow kiss
to a salvaging love
of a now absent friend.