Tritone Life

Your lover sits in the straight backed chair
with her old lady’s shawl,
draped over the green cushion,
and her old lady’s charms
within her acoustic body.

Years ago you made those climbing notes
in the dark halls of tall stone
when the thousand associations held out palms of echoes
and gave to thunder.
You were the master facing his slavery.

Now, with the mysterious halls abandoned,
with all associations left there
and your mind forced into the words
that people hang on for grace or for condemnation,
your lover waits to speak.
But when she does,
will it matter what she says?

Tagged: Christopher Raley, poetry