Sonnet: With No Known Regrets
Proust consciously drifts from one dancehall to another,
modifying Etruscan ruins as he goes. Forgetting where
the bathroom is, he urinates in the foyer, as much to annoy
his hostess as anything else. Ambiguous rejoinders
trim any sense of goodwill that might have arisen, hollow
attempts at camaraderie, without pointing fingers. And yet
distractions proliferate, jumpy quarters rattling in his pocket.
Tense, frothy nights in sprawling neighborhoods nudge him
along on the first few steps of his journey to Golgotha,
that hilltop of intangible punishments. Disingenuously,
Kate reminded him of his obligations, both to herself
and to their children. Paranoiac wrongs smoked clutch
flares, unteachable slumbers snuggled together in warm
bedside manners, breaching the levee, as we’d been warned.
Hal
Halvard Johnson
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