For Rosemary
The mist is gathering in the dark outside
between the churches and the convenience stores
and across the campus
where the students are learning to recite
their scriptures and doctrines
in their juvenile fashion.
I hope it lingers until the morning
with its chilled secrets.
Shift-workers are putting the hours in -
the taxi driver waiting
for the blurry traffic lights to change,
the night club doormen,
disgruntled heavyweights,
ready for something to kick off,
if only it would.
But I am morbid with memories,
jaundiced by romance,
like a revolution that failed
in Tashkent or Samarkand,
or a tired grandmaster
making repetitive moves,
obsessed with stalemate,
forever leaving myself behind.