CONVERSATION

I am retreating from humanity, the vision of escape has conquered

and I know at last oblivion is thorough,

that time can be a symbol of defeat.

In fantasy, we loved, were loved, had lived a thousand lives

and walked through savage ages, hand in hand,

picking our way through the tops of trees and stepping over water,

but I am not divine tonight, my friend, I am weak,

alone and tired as I view infinity through windows into

dark, reflecting what is here within the room I momentarily inhabit,

or gaze at mirrors holding images of illusion.

My visions are a luminous gestation, casting long light

over what may, or may not come: for prophecy

is often false.

I see your visions too, my friend, and harbor pain which is not

secular, but saints have clever knees;

my callouses are more apt behind,

or worn out feet, from stumbling.

I think of little children, and I am aware

that morning is a gift that I am thankful for.

Look, day breaks brilliantly and time is now

too young for Hamlet's Ghost:

he has been here and been here violently,

but he is Hamlet's Ghost (or any other shade of time),

not mine.

© 2010 Charlotte Merrill Jensen