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.
they don’t speak in sepia like we did.
—
smiles in january will be sweeter,
the kinds that are followed by birdsongs.
i know this in threes, twos, and
ones.
precious 