Without walking up to speed.
Without the need to trace
all details seen, –
I can hold an hourglass
to the rays, above,
to the signs of gray
that frost would smear
all reasons to love,
all methods to pray.
Your own, your light for fullest view
to the symptoms of grace and sadness.
I waited, into the next life,
walking and swearing to the Lord
that your tears will not
recreate winter.
Lesser, to being enough
with canvases set
upon sky-high easels.
Greater, towards being without
your love in a losing scene.
Do we hold the same pain?
Are we bleeding in the same ruin?
I trace your arms around the stones,
the moss, clinging to
the droplets of blood,
fewest from
the cracks.
Modern Romanticism 