The wasp on the kitchen table

posed as a murdered lord. Shadows
cast like beach towels on the roses,

tinge of ochre leaking along the walks—
all that is going never returns,

returning only as the vanished do,
whiff of spent perfume rising

from the forgotten, a lost name,
a glance that leads to nothing, nothing.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 41 Number 2, on page 35
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