Curbside by the Royall Tyler
under Vedder’s low roar:
Black, and the histrionics of night.
And us — another roadside drama
revealed by the backslide of love.
But what love we made
on that last holdover morning,
a carnal vernacular
among colonial ghosts.
They must have known
we would come together
in that battle-stained house,
your caterwauling screams astride
my own guttural rush — white knuckled,
the way it’s always been
with lovers diffused, with lovers
forced to find their own way.
These songs of the heart are immutable,
vernal, utterly mortal.
in the wake of what’s lost.