A beautiful poem by Maureen Owen

Today I am rereading Maureen Owen’s book Erosion’s Pull. Every time I read the poem I’m typing below, I take a deep breath — yes, that’s it, exactly how it is sometimes … Saint Maureen Thank you.

Now This Vague Melancholy

Now this vague melancholy adores     me

of hours spent in your facade

it’s best described as she can

if she could     likewise bitterly

since the forecast dented

with     our dinner window cut in two

    , as if her life

her life dissolving

in what had been ageed

not to tell to one another

what was     is the danger

the story of the stories

And     this melancholy.

if then we couldn’t stretch the seams

of our need     while being chatty

we could discuss

                  long into noted

all else

sweet melancholy     dished

each by itself     into a darker     ness

where the hangover begins before midnight

& I could talk to you forever

for no good reasons science could explain

for we are two of repelling cogs

set in their motion fast by some diligent

terrain rising flat as the prairie

as a word     I fell in love with you     then

with a word   can such a thing be done

because of a word     you said     Nebrska

& all the chairs drew back their doors

& all the floors burst into flame

& in the night a single fire swept

swept through it all     &     I woke kneeling on

charred ground     & it was as the saint