My poet
should you be a linger,
amongst ruins
that you love,
Eyes that pale
with morning,
dilate with
youths deepness
in wade of their
ability-
how quickly
we dissipate
lacking
the patience
for calming,
Lay your frame down
it stains with color,
gives means
to call out,
let light
turn a neck
at the shoulder,
imitate autumn
with the leaves,-
It speaks
with a glimmer,
scrapes along
as it retrieves
what pulls apart
when you leave.

03/26/2002