words taste bitter in december when
urns are emptied, filled, lost, doubled till
small talk becomes no talk.
—
this year, the gap on the shelf
of a borrowed book reminds:
keep the moment when the acrobat
freezes on the trapeze, statuesque
marbled eyes locked in the space between
one second and the next,
feasting on the contradiction of being motionless
yet on top of the world.
this year, the gap on the shelf
of a borrowed book reminds me just that.
—
only a time too vulnerable to be measured in minutes
prevents seizures of lunacy when
young things trickle in rivulets, engulfing the space
only you and i knew.
they could never learn of
a time too vulnerable to be measured in minutes.
foolish, whimsical young things don’t speak in sepia
like we did.
—
deep breaths.
smiles in january will be sweeter,
the kinds that are followed by birdsongs.
i know this in threes, twos,
ones.
precious 