Blackamoor

Breaking up -         as in the cloisson jar you dropped. . .         little regard,         a few brittle pieces scattered about the floor.         Let's call it "shedding feelings". Expensive?         There's always another humidor tucked away in         the cranny of another antique shop; after all,         a woman is only a woman         although a fine, Cuban import         is a worthy smoke.         "What this country needs is a good 5 cigar".         Panatellas?         He might have added tight-fitting, long lasting.         Nooks & crannies.         Little things, your ways. Fruit fly (perhaps damsel wing)         as symbol of perishability. My emblematic coat of arms.         No season of regrets, rather         snatch of minutes, the oasis span of a single candle.         Who knows?         The sun nudging petals         at the close of another day.         Your eyelids casting shrouds (and shadows),         the long funeral walk of your hair across the pillow.         Then awakening. You gathering tresses much as a bird trilling         feathers.         Clandestine, these         rendez-vous' Clementines.         Air of mystery and melancholy street,         the moon up & poking         holes in my argument.         Tedious fingers,         no account         matter of factness         lasting eternities.         Imagine, you & this moon,         dowagers together crotchety,         decades hence, making tea.         Curls of black leaves, grumbling.         Blackamoor and sadness,         cult king of empty         transforming the bright & ruddy         complexion into barely honourable dishwater.         You can ask what this means.         A cough. Twirl of spoon         in a cup, deafening answers.         I prefer the lonely         wine bottle,         egret in flight & motion,         retaining dignity across         a crumpled, brown bag.         Listless, linoleum floor.