The Infinite Recession of The Object of Desire
       

Although I haven't seen him in thirty years
or more, I dreamt last night of his passing
beneath me as I watched from a window,
closed against the chill of the early spring.

He is crossing a lawn that glows with green.
His back is to me, but I know it's him
from his walk, his body outlined with light
like the moon as it eclipses the sun,

circling him with a strand of liquid beads.
I've heard from friends' reports that he'd gone mad
or married, moved West to an ashram or
taken up the trumpet like his father.

It makes no difference. In my dream he is
just as he was. Only I am older
and I don't want him seeing me alone
in front of the window. What's strange is I

no longer crave him in my arms whereas
in college I lusted after him, frightening
myself with my desire. What does it mean
after more than thirty years that all I want

is that he stay framed between the mullions
of the window, held a little longer,
luminous and unaware that I am
watching him recede out of the picture?

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Copyright © 2013 David Bergman All rights reserved
from Fortunate Light
A Midsummer Night's Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission