And yes, after all these years, the noun is still infatuated
with the adjective’s amazing beauty, the sentence telling its tale each day, a
recollection of affection to the point of perishing, but no pink pot full of
flowers on her kitchen table, no smoke billowing out the window where she
perched, no longing on the grass that overlooks the river we both share, even
if miles apart, noun and adjective in need of a verb to feel complete, those
nights in the midst of conjunction, “and” without a “but” while in the end, I’m
still lost in her eyes and – as the poet says – “ears, nose and throat,” she
always the enchantress that enchanted me outside that German bar, a kiss that can
never be undone, until language itself is destroyed, this poem, this sentence,
this existence, dedicated to her, the adjective that complements the noun,
inviting the verb to make it all seem real.
