LOST CAUSE: AVOIDING NOSTALGIA
A voice, able to burrow through
the barricade of snow, remains
unchanged.
She speaks of
kneeling then.
Our heroes holier
than a flotilla of angels as we wait
to ripen, our skin eager to be touched.
This late
she looks for
a memory,
the link obedient
to the blondness of bright mornings.
We walk again those pavement hills,
the school
hard-pressed
into a moment
of old bones.
Days have swallowed more than their cups
can hold. Tomorrow leans, its lace cap
slightly askew.
Advertisement
