She felt her eyes closing in upon themselves,
content in reaching their death.

Yet words still formed upon her lips.
And (between whispers) silence still held meaning for her.


The constant stream of night in her head disturbed us
as we sat together in dusty reminiscence.

It was the awkward tilt of her body
and her method of steady movement which alerted strangers.

When her smile reached us it did not reflect back into her heart.
Instead, the shimmer of her broken eyes warmed us.

Despite the implicit haunt of death, of our own fragility,
we laughed, and spoke as if surrounded by inquisitive children.


For some, her heavy absence and slow-footed shuffling
revealed the color and subtle growth of plants.

For others, the cross-lines stitched near her tired and quiet eyes
bred distressful coffin-silhouetted glances which cut inward, like splinters.

09/15/2004

Posted on 09/15/2004
Copyright © 2025 Tom Goss