I've cultivated a nostalgia so frugal it re-lives
the death of communism without party favors or vodka, your
embryo taking root
and Ceausescu executed within hours
of each other on a Christmas morning
five years down the road from this consensual foot massage
in the balcony of the recital hall,
our pleasure advancing without resistance, our souls
privy to a sense of scale that makes a flea circus out of history.
SCOTT COFFEL's poems have...