Ode to Albert René Ricard and the Waking Day
I speak of one whose triumph
is like his own despair
“a prison we all carry”;
his spirit eager for love
which is his only recognition.
His dreams are his own
as are the phrases of a one-night stand
or what might have been
his perfect innocence
or the clouds withholding
the light that would prevent
flowers from growing.
He’s like a sunset of pure sensibility.
His “good looks” are an obstacle.
Yet he is so smooth,
feeling corrupt, at times,
trying desperately to count
the friends as they die
near the spot where
something good is about to happen.
I would like to avoid speaking
of time as an ocean
and step across it without teeling
nostalgic for something familiar,
which is always intruding on friendship.
The conception of love
barely suggests the complications,
or thoughts of him climbing a fire
escape or repacking a suitcase.
His life devoted to making himself free
from the rumors of love
drifting into everyone’s ears.
But thoughts of sentiment intrude
like a major irritation without passing.
I am assuming that he’s safe
where legal contracts are not
in favor of one’s time, at the expense of
the only thing he wants in the world
made to happen.
Rome, Sunday 29:x:67