Privy Poem by Uriah Hamilton

The flowery words have ceased
like long forgotten hieroglyphics;
the language that used to please her
is now only street vulgarity
when she hears it from me.

I wish I could find her
on the campus of a small college
or a hidden bookstore within
the fading heart of the city
or lying pretty in a mortuary.

My best friend told me
he saw her recently
at a poetry reading
or an arts theater
and that she remains
as breathtaking
as the first flower of spring
existing beside
the last remnants of snow.

There are mysteries
I'm not privy to
and portraits
I'll never know.