across the street, seven-thirty a.m.
the air a gray slab on which golding
leaves tremble. they are so young--
of course they shiver. those bright
wings shuddered like dragonflies into
life only an april past.

that faceless silent crying out,
like the anaclitic mouthings
of abandonment, makes
us still, our hearts beating quietly.

three stories is quite a fall
but i would remain here, maternal,
warm behind the window
and not reach out to you.
your garland is brief, and therein
glows its gold.

10/19/2004

Author's Note: comments, please, loves!

Posted on 10/20/2004
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