Your Story

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

Your story rose as from a nothing—

I had not been listening at first,

while, in the shadow,

you were seeing elsewhere.

Your words alone were present,

no other inflection lured—

not of body nor of voice.

I held no place in your recall,

though ringing in each dark solemnity,

cast in every word,

I recognized the same stubborn refrain

of ancient tones that I had ever sung:

orisons that long since ran a course,

musings of some other time,

a long forgotten then—

not now,

perhaps never again;

not distinctly yours or mine,

but strangely held a-common.

The song reminded

of so many things

that I had done,

or left undone,

or had myself undone.

My story strayed from your account

only in the small particulars,

the most discrete of circumstance.

You spun your airs

with things as real as dreams;

I held briefly these new-raised designs

as if they were my own—

reflections lingering patient,

wanting but the form of lost originals,

the shadows of an old intent,

to show themselves in full,

each a measure of some far desire

lapsing briefly to a memory.

I listened for small smiles,

or any mask for gladness

that might cling to nearby shades:

old and unused wishes

hung to ready view,

doubling back to frame

an unlived moment.

Some strange lovesong this shall be:

while you indulge each measure

of your distant melody,

you invoke full payment

of its harmony from me.

A new work for Poets United