Lying on a bed of leaves
Your discarded crown of daisies
Wilts in the noonday sun
I scatter pieces of it into the stream
Where quicksilver carries them away
To unknown lands and unknown seas
Farther and faster than I could ever fly
Wondering if a memory could possibly reach you

Home Relics

There chatters the clocks and timepieces
In a one-room basement of abandoned things
Where the dust is swept and the old rugs rolled
Sitting, the books of childhood and the great-aunts
Prim in photographs no one living recalls
Doilies tatted by a distant hand
Wooden blocks stacked by a boy turned man
The records fitted like vinyl dishes
Glued by inertia and cobwebs to never teeter, or shatter


False Idol

The ghost of who you once were haunts
The bright recesses of my memory
Hung like bare light bulbs in a well-swept attic
Tended to and frequented often
Though I do not take my meals there
Though I do not shower there
Though I do not work there
There is living and there is dreaming
And in that space I am only a creature of the mind
Spinning fables into golden memories
To crown upon your brow in adoration

Out of Touch

Is it selfish of me to never want to meet you again
So that I can always recall your youthful face
Shining gold and oblivious under the sun
To think you are with friends
Drinking beer in the twilight
Sitting on the church’s stone steps
Recalling me with fondness
And remembering the easy smiles
We gave each other

14 to 18

An old song on the radio
Recalls to me that summer spent
Gathering papers and stapling packets
Eating pizza on late Wednesday nights
Figuring out the logistics of the storage room
The knowing look of our boss and teacher
Our last day together picnicking
On the green of the park
And my own amusement teaching her
How to feed the pigeons

Building For Rent

I never once imagined that those places
I loved in childhood would be changed
Or razed or disturbed into forms both alien and familiar
That the corner nook would be filled with dishes instead of books
The white walls washed a sprightly crimson and black
The woman behind the counter who smiled crookedly disappeared
Along with the cook’s milk jello which lingers on my tongue
A memory of both my mother and a lazy summer day;
I see the new façade but still see the old
Superimposed on each other
Present and Postcognition embraced