Roman Fleuve

Graphic, if pointlessly moving,
re-reading that old volume of yours,
cracked now, yellow at the edges,
the autumn of our sophistry.
Student to your libertine,
I trace the dog ears of your fretfulness,
insomniac nights you tricked on their heads,
interrogating every certainty.
Whose inked spurs to the dialectic
snaking down the rancid page –
yours? mine? a third’s?
Those epigrams were dying on a lip:
were they mine you edified, undid?
Your last bodement was all of a piece,
starkness worthy of a jabbing priest.
As then, I attend, say nothing.