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Anna by Michael Conley

I am tired of this violent imagery that colludes
   With the thoughts of loves long ago slipped or shattered.
    It is not appropriate any more.
      Instead, I will watch tireless ants marching in another direction
        A rotten banquet on their polished backs
          The stench very slowly fading.

          The moon–rocks and glib archangels
        That dance from my pen when I write her name
       Are no longer enough. Instead, I will listen for certain words that
     Tumble from foreign tongues, meanings unknown
   And unimportant, passing the lips with the bright
Chime of two half–empty champagne glasses colliding.

These two syllables, one a mirror
Image of its twin, are everything.


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