On Searching for Love & Finding the Night

Switchblade knife revealed in pale moon light;
people speaking, their silence saying more;
an oceanic heart bursting on the shore
of this ancient black cloth spotted with white.
Ah, love prowls with claws withdrawn late tonight
as blindmen wait at corners to cross o'er
and vile passion sits behind a locked door.
Can there be nothing to set this aright?

The phone rings; a voice answers as the past
is soon recalled: “Let us once again meet,”
she says, “Ours was a promise that should last.”
My blood is spread on my skin like a sheet —
no hopes or accusations can be cast —
just: “I'll not see you again, empty street.”

circa 1975

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Mark Hoback, editor of Virtual Occoquan has requested submissions on the topic of "Danger." I've already submitted Rainy Morning, which is tangetical in its danger. Then, sometime last night, it occurred to me this anti-love sonnet from my poetic cedar chest might be closer to the theme.

"Sonnet?" you ask. Well, yeah, not to brag or anything, but this is a Petrarchin Sonnet. I haven't memorized all existing sonnets, but I suspect this is one of the few that basicly says "I hate your guts."

Oh, yeah: it used to be one of Dr. Omed's favorites, as well.