squirming with words,

squabbling, fighting,

reeling with words

sore with myself.

so sore with myself

a world of regret,

begets

this absence of you.

 

O! I wish I could turn words into wishes.

O! I wish my days would fall into line

my eyes could rise for you

without the slightest disguise

for you.

 

Evening is so heavy, the rain has been & gone,

these days’ and nights’ penumbras,

amount to this late

English swan song.

 

A rose garden perfume,

the sweetest white flower of the May,

amidst the clouds of blossom above the drive

rain drops cling to the petals

while scolding tears sting my eyes.

 

There's mist in the garden,

 'alive, he was'

she whispers

his death a jasmine surprise

like the softly seeping nuances of dread,

that echo here and here, in my head.

 

This end of days in Palo Alto,

such heavy music infests the air,

this stretching of reality,

when we're shadowing our shadows,

with words remembering words:

and then the memory occurs

in the living air

but you're really, really not here

not there, not anywhere.