The Cruelty of Memory

This has become the pier glass best avoided between distracted glances from whatever container I anxiously inhabit. Some kind of room! Highly decorated, largely for show, I think; never intended for more than seldom use. Where I spend too much time, because the french door imposture somewhere within my calendar requires minute distinctions normally obscured by my ‘normal’ routines.

Things to be avoided! So many things.

But I can see the garden from here, and hear it where it cannot be seen despite the trompe l’oeil.

At night, some nights, when the moon is full, does it sooth or lull?

A lone, not unpleasant reflection, the glow from something more remote that never assumes the shape of promise.

Overcast days are treacherous, though.

An excuse of special occasions, entirely hollow

echos within an unpeopled polish

that moonlight, soft and diffuse, renews.

That’s my consolation. Impervious to harsh words.

So rather, I’m almost fond of the décor.

It is fragility; it’s résilience… ça dépend on my mood.

Though I’m always sure to dutifully remind myself

this’s not a scene,

it means nothing à l’horreur intérieure…

cette chose intemporelle, une mise en situation,

lorsqu’elle affiche un air de bonhomie factice et impersonnelle…

On s’est amusé? A crush of silk, an exhalation and gesture

fresher than the freshest cut flowers. But how nice it would be

to not have to throw these things away, ever, with my own hands.

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