So go. But understand you’ll never know
another mediocre genius.
The semi-spirit which transfigured us
is gone, flame-fled, dead match head, candle, blow,
you know the story: Once upon the end.
Now you can mix with better, sparkling spirits.
We mediocre can be left to croon
our three chord melodies and moon spoon June
our vinyl feelings. You don’t need to hear it.
But thank you from a once transfigured friend.
You made me shine, bees wax on antique wood,
like something luminous. You made me glow.
The sheen has gone, but, sweetheart, it was good
to be your shining light-like something. Go.