The End of Romance

by Julian Bernick

What could contain her gift, her blaze?

Why not her face in the cold fat stars?

Comets for lips and a brow full of skies

All my red rockets to worship those eyes.

Nothing ever changes in midnight’s eyes

The mask of midnight, floating on the city.

We stand at attention, constellated mirror,

We are the secret society of enough;

Enough with the Moon’s white gardens.  Enough

With desire, admitting no limits, there are

Never enough days in the calendar of you.

Which is why I like to sleep in your bed.

And think of your distant funeral, it contains

Everything I loved in one big box.