Saturday, February 16, 2013

Epitaph



I can’t bury us where
we’ve always belonged –
six feet under (six thousand
long miles) with a pinch
of your kisses and
all my conviction
scattered
in the spaces
where you liked me to be.

If I could just return
all your poetry – a gesture
you make in your moments
of madness; the hourglass
web that cradles you.
How can I miss you
so wholly, at all?
In our long witching hour,
your vacant half-three

breathtaking ghosts
sputter from your
cigarettes – you spoke
of that skyline like it
actually moved you – what if
(let me move you!)
I could be
your haunting

No, I’m not ready
to bury you.

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