But Now I’ve Gone
Charles Leggett

Devotion forms outside of sex, I tell
my younger friends, so don’t forget to listen.
No, by the time my folks adopted me

all that was long ago and no distraction
whatever. No, devotion gingerly
will gather to you: secretive digressions;

profiles glimpsed in light that just then alters;
surprising sympathies; the frank opinions
announced as such—so don’t forget to listen!

“It happens once to every heart.” Loss gathers,
applauds; enlists its rhythmic parallels
—dark flourishes, entrenched polyphony.

Art is no answer. Rather, say the answer
is not art, this wizened improvisation,
this mathematics in a spirit’s vestments.

But now I’ve gone beyond her, where is she?
Lost in the ether of this melody.
Back to the blues head. Back to certainty.

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