...written as though by Mr. Sark...
Four sides, lidless
a box, square, rectangular: a holding
area for blanket, book,
bomb.
What you offered him was nothing:
emptiness of which you were not aware
the lack of matter, absence of care.
Waiting space unfilled
devoid since Daniel's trousers,
texts and stethoscope fit
your days. Easy puzzle
pieces to sink--like bullets
into barrel--into the shade
of a life more-real than truth.
Until breath, tenuous as spider web
swept aside by broom, was stolen
in blood-soaked baptismal font.
A spacious drawer, without content,
inviting
in its unoccupied state,
prior tenant near-forgot.
'Twas love once-housed
in bureau's bosom: closer
than a drawer-pull to your heart.
You seek now to re-fill the space,
Casual in your nonchalance.
With boxer's eyes, he desires
this drawer, to possess as his domain
And so, I fear you'll learn too late;
love once given cannot be regained.
For though I'd seek desperate to withdraw
that affection you somehow yet claim,
I find I cannot revoke the space alotted, "Bristow, Sydney,"
Even as in sleep you sigh his name.
Disclaimer:This work is not affiliated in any way with the ABC spy series Alias, or, for that matter, Mr. Sark, whose poetry--until such time as he wishes to make it public--remains unsung, unfeted, and largely unknown.
by: Neftzer 2003 (c)
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From my website Mr. Sark Writes Loves Poetry royaltoby.com / alias / sark.html