"The scent of charcoal in his whiskey evoked the warm and woody smells of Papa's fine cigars. Rueful, he toasted the great emptiness and silence all around.
Papa? I miss you.
Startled by those words spoken aloud, feeling himself observed, Lucius turned to confront the scowling visage in the cabin window. Arbie Collins had watched him talking to himself, watched him raise his empty glass to the black moon mirrors."
- Peter Mattiessen, Shadow Country
Wait around and I swear you'll see her
looking back from black moon mirror.
Hot enough for anything -
to toil in the fertile eve,
to make another sad disease.
Raise a glass to the man who named you.
Do you think he felt this too?
You come to me with balled up fists,
nervous tics, black velvet fifths
because you never gave your consent
to this life that you hate.
No recourse for a life
that you've spent feeling down.
Your mind's not brown
it's a blue hue.
All the best did it in time.
Don’t forget: it’s nonsense refined.
Well if the cross on her head
leaves you reeling in a depression
what can you do
but try something new?
You blame it all on a distant family
but spew it out in half Galician ramblings.
What about this provenance?
Ask the lust that won't admit
to staring down your innocence
from a dark reflection.
When the green and golden June
gives way to a winter mood
what lumen will you have to see?
Which change in tide will bring you peace?
If the voice in your head wants to know exactly what's happened
well that's not you.
Your futures in bloom.
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