I have been told

She is back in town, perhaps for a while
and I -
I am obsessed with the thought of Her.

She is the standard against which
All others are measured:
Strong, weak, intriguing, talented, beautiful, vulnerable.

One imprinted scene, tremulous notes
(and hidden plays)
A woman vexed

The dance went on
into the night
Without us,
For - we were elsewhere.

What is this 'we'? It is not. She may be.
Yet if I - even I - can be moved to love her, then at the least -
We shall talk again.

Is this the hour
for mysteries to awaken
And stalk the dark?