in hopes that something new will start. they're winding down
they're closing ranks
to rest another 30 days. you lay and watch them wax and glow. you hold them in your hand and let them go. a kid half my age
baby's breath and meadow sage
clutched in her hands like trophy game
just like the wild world was tame
was granted home and tender care
into an awkward piece of ware
three-quarters full or quarter-drained
and both adversely sure how long they will sustain. my eyes greet hers and hers do mine
and then the room becomes her shrine. an older ma'am sets herself straight
and then she smiles with 88 remembered loves
and morning suns until her woven was sung. her fingers dropped like falling rain. the entire room awash with the sustain. you always said that you don't dance
but then a heel turn to a shadow stance. i'm wrung like sodden cloth. and the autumn leaves turn over across your floor
into the hall and i've declined into a crawl
and you decompress and fall away but
this floor is raised on beams of trust
and there's room enough for both of us so stay. sustain. inside your room there's 40 few
remaining figures of new moons
to curve around your axle heart
in hopes that something new will start. the things you grow are set to die. you cling to them with knuckles white. so wind me up