Ellipsis
--
The Germans
must have a word for it.
The sensation of missing someone
whom you are with,
anticipating the longing
you will soon feel
when they depart.
“I miss you already,” we say,
as if this makes any sense.
We regularly steal from the future
to feed our present tense,
our secret addiction to the holograph
of someone
over his flesh and bone.
The man next to us in bed
is never as perfect
as the one in our head.
No wonder great loves
of the past
made their nest
from letters.
Ink as the quantum reality
of absence and presence
simultaneously.
What sweet succor comes with age,
if you are lucky.
These days,
I am perpetually late to anticipation.
Nostalgia, finally, a thing of the past.
My youthful prayers
to be here now
unexpectedly answered —
99% of the time.
One must permit
a fugue now and then,
into fantasy or fear.
Imagining Portofino may be
as close as I get to being there.
Only one future destination
is guaranteed.
But why set out
the welcome mat for that?
The hooded angel
will appear at my door soon enough.
I have lost enough years
preparing for its arrival.
There is probably a German word
for that, too.
MC0 2020
