Wednesday, December 26, 2012

A Distant Whistling

I knew her rough direction

And could see the tracks

Although a train hasn’t been

This way in years.  There was

A rose-petalness to her lips

As I kissed her good-bye,

And her natural softness

Which coupled with her

Adamantine resolve buckled

Her, sending her bloodied

To the ground.  I found

Her getting into bed, furious

At her traitorous cramping-legs

Though not able to recall them

The next day and seeing no

Reason to stay as though

She were like me who puts

Words to these wrenching things,

Seeing the colors change and fade

Here as at the river, hemming

In everything I try to remember.

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