Like
the Grass
Absently
showering the spent casings,
understanding
betrays will
as a
party begets rhythm
and some angst-
And though we speak often of peace
in this crackling, electric age,
the recent past is a contour of
intention and crude facial recognition.
Gratefully,
having gasped for air at
times,
a thirst
for passion grows as the water birch will in spring
And
I know when gone
away,
recollection
is ice in a chest,
tiny
cookies in a plastic bag,
long
grass in moiling clay.
A
lilac perfume will complete the cycle
only if
inhaled and remembered in a long, darkened moon;
I can only hope that you might be
there,
so that the gift might be complete and even in pulse)
A memory
created like those blades of grass,
under a
quickened ceiling of blue and grey-
the prospect
an expanse, a vaporous silhouette and a heady amnesia.
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