IN DISTANT ROOMS: AAMIE BURNLEY

I await your return.
The flicker of a candle inside faceted glass,
the scent of warm oil, almond and olive,
tender melodies fit for the King of Persia
blend into the near quiet of the night.

Coming of age
in the ancient parlor,
another generation murmurs;
unisex men and women
evoke the great imperatives:
rumors of anarchy,
bouts of sexual autonomy,
basketball,
war.
Their fire sputters, sure to ignite

Renaissance impending,
there is no easy awakening
into a revelation of the light.
What is conceived will be;
it only waits to be re-born in distant rooms
where old light casts its pall
across the face of fading innocence.

Gather me up in the gloom
lest we awake no more;
for I have laid abed restless
dissecting the shadows.
Shade there never was* to soothe
like the dark penetrating sleep
of our profound indulgence
in the sanguine hopes of yesterday.

The lamp is lit for you.

*From George Frideric Handel's Largo