They lost faith in their love, and called it a day.
That’s almost fifteen years ago, much longer
than they expected to pine for each other.
They thought (they even discussed it) one focussed
summer of cold turkey would do the job.
A rough season crowned by a harvest of peace.
But they were wrong. The unremarkable seeds
of infatuation they talked themselves
out of have marked their lives. The truth grew wild
inside their separate hearts. It was, they’ve come
to see, a curiously tragic affair,
with its belated, drunk and circular
evidence of fullness. And its purity,
which in their strung-out prayers they call bad luck.
Today’s poem is from Martin Dyar’s new collection, The Meek (Wake Forest University Press)
That’s almost fifteen years ago, much longer
than they expected to pine for each other.
They thought (they even discussed it) one focussed
summer of cold turkey would do the job.
A rough season crowned by a harvest of peace.
But they were wrong. The unremarkable seeds
of infatuation they talked themselves
out of have marked their lives. The truth grew wild
inside their separate hearts. It was, they’ve come
to see, a curiously tragic affair,
with its belated, drunk and circular
evidence of fullness. And its purity,
which in their strung-out prayers they call bad luck.
Today’s poem is from Martin Dyar’s new collection, The Meek (Wake Forest University Press)
