The Prosperous Friction, 1816
(Mary seated against a boulder;
a small sealed box in her lap)
Testimony waits
behind the tongue in thoughts
–such a sudden return to insight—
anxious,
for the air,
the unpredictable destiny of speech,
my brittle senses’ version of
their little bond
witnessed, I hear,
the day Byron’s lip quivered.
A trembling finger rests
on the undeniable log;
others were chosen
to burn my Percy’s body,
gathered by our close fold,
relieved, able to move
both selves & stoves
to this salty grove,
as of yet unstricken
with the yarns of his exit.
Testimony?
Should I tell?
Yes!
I was present then.
When the candles snuffed themselves
I sought sleep;
listening in the midst of
the poet’s verbal duel,
Byron,
on the Deity’s side,
& Shelley,
on the Skeptic’s.
I looked back once,
then the lamp bore a new hour
meant for the porous time
in such endless minds
beyond
the creeping futile line of morning’s arrival.
