A continuation. A disappearance.
A perfect model, convincing
The place
That made you
That the feather of ash
Caught
In your wrist's hair
Is as old as the world.
Of course,
It is.
We stack these Easters
Behind the open linen closet door,
Hoping
They amount only to
Our old, harmless feet chasing
The late of the evening.
But, truthfully,
Easters are not so easily stacked,
And our footsteps are not so harmless,
And our fires are not so purposeless.
No comments:
Post a Comment