You imagine
I think and chew
leftovers of a conversation
buried in books and rotund
table talk. I sigh.
You weep, that the conversations
are dead and mythic.
I find the whole thing
cryptic as you are.
But I want to dig deep
and unearth those conversations
excavating half truths in mermaid's
attire. Do you want them back,
do you? So that we may at least
live in the past, with shadowy
lengths of the truth.
Or do you too want them dead?
Exploring conversations is a strange
pastime. But it excites possibilities
that you cavort in my mind.
You can tell me if the relationship
is fragmented, or are you piecing it together?
Like the myth, the excavation
in an anthropological summer?
