I again hold your picture
and wish for anything else
a passing stranger
to obscure the lens
or the merciful pardon of a magnified
misplaced, blurry thumb
or the quickly passing shadow
of some eclipsing moon
that signifies the revolving
annual secret
of your death day
to darken your face
but the bright slice
of your smile
containing that effervescent hope
of the moment
of things to come
I can’t stomach it--
its hopeful, simple beauty
has become a flashing sickle
whose very sight
grows within me, every time
a small crop of hope
and in the same curving motion
cuts me down

No comments:

Post a Comment