we locate rubies inside books
stolen from the public-library
digging in between chester drawers
discovering memories we've tried to leave
foreign post cards, forget me nots
opera tickets, to do lists
From now on, i'm wearing
only lilac . . . or black.
a love who just can't
the woman is picking & choosing
oranges and apples and beats
from the corner market on elm street
each day the man with that ridiculous beard
intentionally finds a way to brush-her hand
to mimic and discover the naivety of her ways
' this one was grown just for you'
she blushes and grabs her camera
he is stunned then goes back to work
this picture was never developed
and four years later she arrives back
at his boothe
she has traded her pearls and rouge
for black eyes,with a limp in her stride.
there is nothing more to say about the loss of youth
with innocence existing once
a single season,murdered by the bottle and a fist.
we long for thee.