ANOTHER MATTER
He moved his pieces without love. A heartfelt
fear. For the first time: no, no accomplice, but
solitary. These were the confusions of love . The
last glittering. Un-restored. Raw. Even before the
defective, the defunct. Even before love. All
once diaphanous.
Once.
But then life would have been quite another
matter.
© Umansky 2010