eight grace notes in a decade

an impossible gliss
stutters over the field
where you told me the beginning
​
torn trinkets slip
through sand drains
of now and tomorrow
time ceasing to heal
itself and us.

​concrete and sheetrock
mere storage rooms
where truths glisten-
squished on shelves
between exam schedules.

even in the earliest hours
hope only yields so much
- that the two roses
growing in window boxes
won't wither -

the others and I
clipped 
our own thorns.

"don't" you say
as I try to reclaim
a violet ceramic mug
split in two
on the stairs.

off has begun
we switch,
the light dims,
and we leave the room.

snow piles high
in front of the white building,
cleansed as it were,
locked doors and windows whole.

then we,
ignoring the repeat sign,
embark from Paris
to opposite poles.

loudest in the room
was the mute piano

windows 
broken
open
chairs

delineating

slits of sunlight
where I become
- and yes, it was you
as they always asked

lower than before,
nearly ten years,
and the notes scattered
from oranges to pine cones
far...or running...

awake now.

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