Since giving up on poetry ..
Back when we’re on our own 
as our only bard put it, a face 

Boiling sad together. 
Not pretty but there in print, through & around 
A back to romance pile up.

Rhythms about envy, fugue-sonata 
moods for all time rigged 

To full practice in one truce or august matter; lone 
autumns & springs mutating in dark 

Chez nobody who stayed home 
tho slowed down to furnish the pace, 

Prelude to singing along alone 
as a forward part of the original anger to confuse.