Modern Romanticism

I’m here, holding onto
leftover scraps of an existence
once unchanged,
once unknown of its
teeming significance.

I never cradled
what went out
like a waking torch,
like a weeping infant
just about to face
the circling darkness.

I never showed admiration
for the little ways
in which life carried itself,
always into the winter,
always within the summer,
while anticipation
kept its steady rain.

I’m here, dispersing of
the texture of fallen ash,
creeping myself
into a corner
where condemnation,
where resignation
must be disallowed,
in its reign.

I’ll walk with footsteps
isolating those puddles
that reflect the light
from those that
receive the night.