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.