near a building of empty textures
and uninspiring muted light
on formed pavement
beneath torrents of rain
a form of a girl, waiting…
I’m not sure what she’s waiting for

Watching them waltz
all over the vanishing sunset,
it’s all I could do to hold in my plea
for someone to notice I was fading
and wouldn’t be able to stand much longer.
I whispered, “I miss mercy”
and bowed into night.

Sometimes it feels like candlelight’s enough
to transport us to another time
– literally, like we wake and it’s 1869
and the country’s torn apart
but growing west, ever west
to a soft tallow glow.

I wonder if a train of thought
needs to reach its intended destination.

I would not go back
though some of my skin is looser now
and my hips are sometimes rusty
on their hinge.
Do not count out the rhythm I carry,
muddled and muffled though it may be-
that is life coursing through my shimmy;
the message sounds like trees
and feels like wind to me.

Beneath the quiet,
the tucked-in,
the folded pages of him,
he laid down glimpses
of wooden spoons
and open robes,
bathing in their memory
until she picked up
a thread
leading to his attic,
as cluttered and dusty as hers,
which in its glory
had been at best
a summer song
but now only sounded lost;
they found harmony
in their blackened hearts
and wished only
for a little time to sing.