Yes, the nerves are like tombs,
but there has been no death --
save the many repetitions
of a strangling in the depths
A submersion
and resurface
and a strangling once again
Four months on,
strapped to my shoulders, it remembers --
still rattling the coins
I scooped up that December
"Just take all that"
from the desk where they sat --
so I scooped them up from you.
Now each time they sound
in their pocketed place --
sift out memories
I'd not dreamed to erase
The clamor I kept just to
go back to you --
but the small pocket wore
and it shrunk -- and I grew.
So I emptied the coins,
but went back to you --
An absence,
a ghost
and echoes without proof.
No comments:
Post a Comment