There are situations which cannot be honorably met by art.
—George Oppen
In the end, were we all not nobly overwrought — sentimentalists distanced far too far to change the world. So, take the world, how it is in your mind’s eye?
when all alone, we do invite the phantom girl in, well-formed but formless
Turn your contrition into silk, that is so insulate, detached to stave off all despair. You can frequently imagine another’s pain by its outward signs.
nothing can go wrong, no reluctance, no awkwardness, no mistakes
Their rough sensual indications—struggle, strain—in gasps, a tension inward of the eyes...Oh, God, the eyes; it is not less stoic that you might dress it up.
dark illusive feminine he once knew but cannot now remember
Charles D. Tarlton grew up in California, but lives now on the shore in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, with his wife, Ann Knickerbocker, an abstract painter, and Nikki and Jesse, their two standard poodles. His poetry has appeared in such places as Rattle, Blackbox Manifold (UK), London Grip (UK), Ilanot Review, Gone Lawn, 2River, and The Journal (UK). He has published several poetry collections.