it is the air expanding
leaning invisibly
on the things
that lie awake
in the oblivion of
our acts

it’s in the hair
how it flees
description
under a delirium
of nods

it is your hand playing
with the light and motion
of a naïve hour

a choice
forever collapsing
in the past

it is melancholy
beading slowly
these pearls of remembrance
in the wasteful hand
of a poet.

 

 

 

Poems