Here’s a stone. There’s a trail.
Burning fingers will hurl what it can
when the past will bandage
When the past will remind
a farewell to the open
window, or the open field
of the purpose for day to fade.
When morning comes,
leave me beneath these sheets.
When mourning runs,
bring it back, riding the sigh, –
the wind, the guiding breath,
the returning tide.
Here’s a hand. Where’s the other
to hold this rope for me?
Where is the last word going
when white flags are left
as immaculate pages?
I could write a sonnet of love,
an ode to guilt.
I could scrawl my name in a puddle
as ripples meant to escape.
I could wait until Hell picks me up
or Heaven lets me fall.