Sunday, September 08, 2013


Between time and its unravelling,
tears.  Oh so many!  Between
events and their consequence.

In the movement of clouds, imagination,
the slow drifting of might have been,
the eddies of the realization of is.

Fact.  And yet, has that ever been enough?
Has that ever sung with emotion, long
after nightfall, when shadows dance?

Like entwined hands, cool September,
the way a song stirs something so
buried, so in the rear view mirror that

it is almost invisible, a taste of pepper,
garlic on the tongue, which awakens
sometime after midnight, in a silent house,

full of dread.  And sleep is impossible,
the air pixels of an unresolved picture,
the future as empty as this longing.

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