Fata Morgana
Sep 2nd, 2009 | By Aristotle Sinclair | Category: Poetry | 356 viewsAccording to her mouth
“dinner is served”.
Rising from the winged torso of my
study’s only chair, anticipation.
The white oak table’s presence
presented an atmosphere of nonappearance.
No food or intertwining glass of waiting red wine.
Into the kitchen I spread query across the
porcelain floor.
Again, absence, my wife gone from the posture
of her daily preparations,
no answer to my questions collocating
need. The person left standing was
image of a woman dancing roughly
in my mind.
Then, as if contemplation was the required
habit of virtue, the voice calling me to an
absence of the now, was the obligatory voice
engrained, ensuing the burial of my wife’s
final sigh.
|
About Aristotle Sinclair: Aristotle Sinclair is a poet of neoteric contemplation. He reads Duane Locke and Constance Stadler to ascertain excellent poetry. He wrote his first poem on 8/13/09, and has received acceptances to Writers’ Bloc, The Catalonian Review, Writing Raw, The Legendary, and several other kind places. In the rarity of spare time, he reads various texts and quotations from philosophers, and thinks Thelonious Monk is the epitome of a jazz genius. He records occurrences at http://aristotlesinclair.blogspot.com |
©2009 Aristotle Sinclair All Rights Reserved
