Borrowed from a recent New Yorker
\nFor An Old Girlfriend, Long Dead<\/p>\n
Lying on that blanket, nights on the seventh green–
\nin the dry air the faint scent of gasoline,<\/p>\n
nothing above us but the ragged moon,
\nnothing between but a whispered soon <\/i>…<\/p>\n
Well, such was romance in the seventies.
\nWatergate and Cambodia, the public lies,<\/p>\n
made our love seem, somehow, more true.
\nOf the few things I wanted then , I needed <\/i>you.<\/p>\n
I remember our last arguments, my angry calls,
\nthen the long silence, those northern falls<\/p>\n
we drifted toward our newly manufactured lives.
\nDoes anything else of us survive?<\/p>\n
That day in Paris, perhaps, when you swore
\nour crummy hotel was all you were looking for–<\/p>\n
each cobbled Paris street, each dry baguette,
\neven the worthless sous nothing you’d forget.<\/p>\n
Outside, a block away, the endless Seine
\nflowed roughly, then brightly, then…<\/p>\n
Then nothing, Nothing later went quite that far.
\nI remember that spring. Those breasts. That car.<\/p>\n
William Logan<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Borrowed from a recent New Yorker For An Old Girlfriend, Long Dead Lying on that blanket, nights on the seventh green– in the dry air the faint scent of gasoline, nothing above us but the ragged moon, nothing between but … Continue reading