The empty hours
press against the windows of this room
a quiet that keeps
every death
close in corners
I wait for my turn to speak
to the distance
of the forgotten
I could never reach
*Does the boulder beside the riverbank remember my evening prayers on the longest journey home?
Do the sunflowers still grow behind the rotting fence on the corner of the empty town?*
walking away from them
with envy at high noon.
the time I wondered,
"Could he ever love me again in the spring?"
when we laid in the grass and I whispered,
"Lovers have nothing"
Every moon seen from the meadow through the cedar window frame
or
passing glances in store windows ******* honey through my teeth from happy vendors who won't remember me
or
every letter I wrote on hotel walls and napkins
These words, these words
undying
marked the back of each wave
onto lamenting pages for
a blush colored youth
or a dying star
(these things soon
and at the same time
are alike)