from The Feathered Sleep
Love is a drowsy hand
held beneath quilt
and long after it has gone
you remember
the familiar warmth
and though the day is raw and filled with white clouds
you walk the dog through the uncut grass
remembering how it felt
to touch.
Love is a pain, sharp between your ribs
as if blunted knife has found purchase
to imagine one moment in this world, without you
and yet, so often
love is a terrible morning, waking in disbelief
you no longer walk beside me.
Then love is all you have
to hold onto, when the day swells and charges
emptiness spitting her spite in your face
your only recourse, to reclaim, that drowned memory
of when you were both without suffering
no worn streaks of tears tracing your jaw
nor the wink of life fitful, in the candle of your eyes
stillness, in yet unbroken reverie
stretching forever…
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