PRECIOUS DISASTERS

Our triumphs drift into mist behind us

but out of the years' long emptying

the errors remain, as if they were precious,

as if they deserved to be fondled, each

disaster held in memory

like a gem in a box lined with scarlet plush.

On sleepless nights I press a catch

to encounter again some stupid choice,

some maladroit word that cost me a friend

or the instant before such a word was spoken:

her unwarned, beautifully shining face

about to be drained of all light.