Squirming with words,

squabbling, fighting, reeling  with words

sore with myself.

so sore with myself

a world of regret,

begets

only

this absence of you.

 

O! I wish I could turn words into wishes.

O! I wish my days would fall into line

my eyes rise for you

without the slightest disguise for you

finally, it's only you.

 

Now

this evening is so heavy, the rain has been & gone,

these days’ and nights’ penumbras,

amounting to nothing more than

a swan song.

 

My rose garden ally,

my dirge yet so-much more,

my sweetest white flower of May

amidst the clouds swirl above the floor;

it's just the way

the rain drops cling to the petals

like your tears to your lids

as rain drops, tears sting my eyes.

 

Mist in the garden,

 'alive'

she whispers

a jasmine surprise,

like the softly seeping away of the nuances of day

that echo here, here, in my head,

Alive, not dead.

 

This end of days in Palo Alto,

heavy music in the air,

this stretching of reality,

she's here, there, nowhere. 

 

We're shadowing our shadows,

remembering words with words:

memories flare like hallows

blessed is the living air,

a phantom, a moment, a prayer.