those rose-tinted, slow motion memories
you can’t retrieve (there is a sadness
to the past, perhaps, because the you of
fifty years back, or even a day ago,
is more alive than the you doing the dreaming,
this is what I propose, you misty-eyed, fading
open to the soul of your dying.
hold nothing back.
your freshly cut hair fluffed up
around your face, held to your magnetic
pull like the mechanics of static cling.
here is where my memory gets faulty,
dancing around the pearl-dotted grass
beneath trees, refusing, in its soft way—
to acknowledge a less rosy retrospection.
here is where the night closes in.
I remember this best because I was afraid.
there are few pictures of this time, and a
sadistic part of me wishes I hadn’t hidden
here is where the moon stretches over the tress, and
awakes something in my heart that yearns without knowing
here is where the story ends, as all good stories do (and like all
good stories, I suppose it goes on in the mind of the listener for an uncertain
infinity, taking up as much blooded space
as the heart needs.)
the dull setting of peace drives bones to
outer limits, drives mind to tired
eyes snap open, color flooding back
to observe the westering sun.
(do we grow old, eyes closing like
withered leaves in their time of dying
as we sleep, falling limply to a swollen
I am no one’s great love, nor have
my hands built castles,
nor has my face taken them down.
I am not the long-winded muse
speaking softly and cruelly into the poet’s
ear; I am not the wind in the east,
shifting to knock against the madman’s door,
the shadow rising from the alcoholic’s
I am only the drifting,
one solitary flurry-flake, moving at a wanderer’s pace,
across the land, to be extinguished