Left Over and Lost

I close my eyes and see you, royalty, high above me, like the sun or the sun's lover, a flame, fire, fucking the whole sky. What would have to happen to be together didn't happen and at a late juncture it's mostly okay because what else but okay is left. All those long drives from Vermont into Boston, getting coffee and smoking joints, listening to the Dead and Dylan, talking about the world we were going to bring forth, which we did not in the end bring forth. I'm last in a lot of ways, left over and lost, but you keep saying you see something. A handful of pumpkin seeds takes the edge off being hungry, but being hungry makes it easier to remember how to wait for God, so, you know, balance. Cosmic bus stops, angelic Patty Hearsts. One by one the many psychological hang-ups get resolved, and it's like dropping into a warm sea that has no bottom. Pearls on the tongue, oysters in the shallows. Ravens on the church steeple, sentences only you can write. Emptiness vs. dreaming. There was a question I was made to ask and the thing is, having asked it, I'm having a hard time remembering I wasn't made to answer it, don't need to wait, can shuffle on, even without you, right now, et cetera.