Grasping fingertips
clutch stagnant air
I am desperately searching
while you remain everywhere

I hinge upon you
you are the fulcrum
of all my motion

When the yellow day coppers to dusk
I paint my weary eyes dreams.

They nudely wade the crabhole muds
for marks of the great marksman
climb up the chunks going into tides
tiptoe through the needle roots
sniff a wind that smells of stripes
thrilled
death if comes
would be a momentary stir
a dangling cloth
resting on the trail of blood, marking,
someone ventured.

One day in 2299,
They will tell
This story,
The one of
Dying books on
Dusty shelves,
In a time when
There was
Still room
To dig graves
In the ground.

Tear stained pages
Tear stained pillows
The legacy of my love for you.
                    ljm