VII

Untouched, the fields of soft voice
drop far behind me.
I am the departing grass,
a palm of wind holding only solitude.
Essentially nothing,
the bodies I once held
like a clutch of nights,
are breeze beneath my heels.
I walk alone with a salt of sadness,
my own,
utterly my own.
And I aim my bone
at the intervals between love,
at the absence where everything gathers.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s