The New Romantic


The secret window view of lake and alp, the ruins,
the cypress rows that lapse into a spongy dusk,
the phrase that weeps and gives off a decaying odor,
the comfort in a pastel sky, in perfect posture,
the bespoke tux in anybody’s oeuvre, red
Exit signs, red cigarette tips, how the noir
and all its props, along with sweet, reflective kisses,
the heat in long Italian vistas – vanished.  The heart

once so exposed has slammed its doors on assignation,
on lovers slyly coveting  a cloak or dagger,
on worn, old-fashioned fictions, on messy, blowsy smooches.
The heart now shuns uncertain endings covets instead
virtual meeting applauds untying – unplanned
lust  in unmade beds – the benefit of friends.



Wendy Taylor Carlisle