No Absolution

“Nothing the writer can do

is ever enough.”
                — Joy Williams

No forgiveness, nor clarity
and in the storm, no umbrella,
just rain falling on September grass,
homeless worms and
the dregs of hot summer rooms
that accept cool evenings as
lovers whose shadows squirm
and sigh, wind new arrived from
the west.  No relationships
ever enough, no stout oak growing
from seeds sown so sympathetically,
so close to the heart, the sinews of
every word spoken in the cafe
by the river, in the evening, shortly
after Chardonnay  and protestations
of eternal love.  No way forward,
no escape from the page, its
permanence, its odour and texture
against the tongue of words
which embraces the moment just
five steps from that terrible reality,   
the invasion of an alien mind.