Yet there is nary a note of regret
For the words of her enemies on her lips,
For hoarding the sensuous for private
Purposes, for all the betrayals slipped,
For she's kept the perfect hostage, the not
Yet created, what the collective songs
Promised before falling unfulfilled and caught
Revealing nothing but how much we long
For expression, but have nothing to show,
Unarticulate, inexplicable,
And the glow of the afternoon overture
Takes over our senses, assumes our heartbeat
Til the kalimba thrum thumbs lift, and we
Recall nothing, least of all who we were.
