Did you hear my bones like a long sough at the end of last night's cypress trees? Like a pale susurration among the restless olive groves?
Will there be just so many windfall days to find out where you whistled a fugitive shiver into the grass, and never shouted for a knife in the wind?
I remember reading you by words passed through a hat scented with the muddy wine made to scorn all hands. Perhaps there were words made every afternoon under the disquieted cloister, to replace the ruins of each sunrise?
When making the evening meals of a dozen barefoot heavens, did the rain hollow your eyes and whiten your fingers over the last row of apples?
copyright © lcmt
YOU ARE READING
Welding Feldspar and Breccia
PoetryAll dirt, all stellar, all for naught. More poems about men and women by Lin Tarczynski.
