by Donald Vincent
I think— when did my pigment come to mean
I’m ignorant? Or mostly what I am
afraid of most, which is that one day,
you might leave me, alone. Loneliness
is me among people, but you’re absent,
these people are always never you.
I can’t fix it, can’t take it back. There’s
no warranty on love. Between music and muses,
I have solaced death. Picasso said, The hidden
harmony is better than the obvious. My melody
has left me. So I hum a tune, giving
special thanks to the women who reciprocate
the same song, in between my dreams
and between poems.