Another day of hope and nothing
slides into evening’s apologetic grey;
I’m in love, but I don’t know who with.
Somewhere, upstream of love
and poetry’s floundering strokes, she’s sitting
as fine and clear as the first gasp of oxygen.
It’s getting dark
and once more no one’s turned up;
every day’s just a poor copy
of how we want it to be.
(from Exercises in Unreality, Agàpe Publications, 2002)
S.C. Flynn 