Only Traces Remain

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The sadness in the open rose

falls like petals to the path,

while you are somewhere else,

and I am nowhere near.

I hold on to the shreds

as a cicada’s husk

to a tree still clings

to a life not its own.

All maps are tattered

to an unstable memory–

which forms and reforms

until a landscape adheres.

Slowly I have fallen onto

a shapeless and empty road.

 

(September 15, 2018)

 

Dreams Interrogate the Day

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Questions

which remain unanswered,

as if on a student exam,

befuddle me. I wonder

the possibilities: lack of time,

lack of knowledge, lack of trust.

Some stay silent, although known,

because the question

was never asked—or

never formed

clearly enough to be able

to be asked. Or I feared

the answers might be

the ones I desired.

 

(August 19, 2018)

Waiting on the Muse

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“I live by impulse, by emotion, by white heat”

–Anais Nin, “Henry and June, A Tunnel of Love

 

impulse would not wait

to feel the white intensity;

with no emotion to attach,

she’d coldly leap away,

unfinished, unresolved.

no tidy ends in escape,

just bloodied stumps

where our hands were

torn away through neglect,

and unrequited regret.

 

(August 19, 2018)