Once
when we did display
our tears in the rain,
our forms
traced in the grain,
blending gravity with
our lonesome compulsions, –
we drew our eyes apart
from the dangerous road,
holding ends as were roses
burned into sand,
crisscrossed into hands.
Now
when we are diverging
from the path that
to our foresight, to our
weeping smiles, fading suns,
we have much to move for
the moon to change phases.
Kissing a final time.
Healing another time, –
where stains are bitterly
engrained, as the coffins close
with the chapters
upon the time-stilled bodies,
upon the perfumed pages.
Lessons, late
into an evening of summer,
where winter, in its empty snow
never seems to know
that a petal, with its fogged overtone
will decay in the scar,
will not move very far.
Modern Romanticism 