The Blank Place

When love enthralls and armies still march on

Rick and Ilsa toast with Veuve Cliquot the irony in the day.

As time goes by, it's never more or less than an island

of ripe blueberries, ample figs, and uniform boot marks.

We ironize, too, and coo our plans over wine,

hands intertwined on the escritoire in full light,

an isolate scene within the hearing of a clock,

snow melt hit by a rain barrage and a sound of horns.

The full-lit escritoire upholds the fervent hands

devoted to finding-out truth from exhilarated words --

slant rain enfilading the walkway slush,

exotic rhythm, bold piano surging a major key.

But extracting the sense from later punctured words

one stays for far too long in overcoat through drizzle

with alien beats, dismal tunes urging a minor key

as waiting rooms jam at desperate depots.

To scowl as the hat brim soaks to drooping 

losing oneself to those with larger causes

while refugees disperse like burning lanterns:

old hopes a fleet of paper, fire, and smoke.

Losing oneself becomes the cause for losses --

time proves they're never less, and more than an island

where we fire the fleet and smoke old hopes

since love enthralls and armies still keep marching on.

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