How I suffered when you told me to leave-my heart heavy heavy with bass (thrumming).
I walked turning the corner and faced the burning of the sun setting giving a golden glow
to the ugliness of the day–not knowing when it was–and tricking me into thinking you
weren’t a monster.
The monster that I thought you were.
   Passing the soaped windows of stores no longer anything but crypts for yesterday’s
gotta-haves the doorsteps disappearing under a growing deposits of lottery tickets
embarrassed by their own losing numbers and bottles– dark and clear, labels peeling,
tops gone– emptied of their useless dreams (or pipe dreams or day dreams)
   And who is to blame for this death?  This death of you and me?  This death of a
landscape I once held as dear to me as Mother’s hand?  Time.  Time has robbed
Birch Street of its birches and Fifth Avenue of its fives.  All the while I chant.  Murmur.
Sing Kyrie Eleison Christe Eleison (Kyrie Eleison) because that’s what we were taught
to say.  CHRIST have mercy.
   –His mercy endureth forever–
   I carry that prayer or incantation (dammit which?) and cry them into the indifferent
air and wonder why you left.  Or was it I who left? Turn another corner –pivot
90 degrees– and curse the desolate streets and my own dead soul
(lord have mercy).

© ceg 4.9.11

4 thoughts on “Kyrie

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