Stone Will Seal What Time Already Has
I read your poems yesterday.
and found flat between the pages
an unnamed flower someone gave you,
while you walked the streets in love.
we were almost more than
I can imagine now.
and I found severed worms, growing tails and heads,
and those singing moments;
all the fine art of living and remembering, pulsing
on a cool white pages as if blood flowed from your pen.
If I gather you up, place you across paper,
arrange your limbs, smooth your brow and brush back the hair that hides your eyes...
I will still lose you to the turning of a page.
life stops mid-sentence,
though we continue to walk among the choirs of leaves