Colored bandage,
wrapped about, holding down
an undescribed deprivation –
going without, without all that
flooded eyes into separation
from what follows –
a shadow, at its longest,
since sunlight surrendered.
To tears, to stream
at sight of ignition, a beginning
taking a turn, to find itself
burning into black and white,
a division, between a road.
While I held, she had knelt
to catch falling stars.
What were those wishes?
Whatever gave us direction,
in this teeming journey
to lose what we brought out
on our staying plates?
We consumed what we repeated,
leaving words for tomorrow.
We repeated what we leftover,
craving nothing that felt forever,
other than that expectation
for more time,
committing that crime
for this same side.
Modern Romanticism 