Thursday, July 07, 2005

The past is just a goodbye

When She Would
These are my children:
footprints in sand,
oils, traces of fingers, lips, discarded
on the marked surface of a drinking glass,
breaths breathed swallowed by wind,
waste washed down a pipe, rust,
flecks of skin in light,
dancing detritus,
wrappers dropped behind.
These, the ghosts
that lived with me,
hints-of-things embraced.
You should have known their mother.
I craved her,
deeply, the way a man misses life
when he thinks of her,
the way a string yearns for vibration,
music plucked from sense like
a ripe pomegranate
a flash of light
that's how she came to me
when she would.

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