You told me you’re no more
than the silence where dark
meets ice the satellite earthbound. Your eyes no longer burn
and the tangled branches of your memory catch the snow
falling light that made you turn from time
and the beating of thoughts rigid.
Knowing their gaze averts
laying pity aside like a dead leaf unavoidable.
When it is you only want the wanting of a voice
or to dance
as pain bears you rest in hours long and grieving.
I let words slide like a blanket across my feet so right
(and the right words are unkind)
but too heavy to be the gift you needed.
It touches me still and I wake, too, tangled
in damp sheets of blank paper trying
to find the cool spot of comfort.
I am no air no gird or the weightlessness required
by a satellite earthbound in the brief quiet of a winter eve.
I can’t pull back the threads or count
vapors backwards by number. I am prescient clumsy. Wanting the need
to never stop hushing myself when into the stillness
I sing hearing the four-beats of a waltz ended.
Unseeing the white shrouds over tenants of names
memory does not forget but averts its gaze,
not with pity, but in languor.
As beauty slumbers deep in a dream of satellites earthbound.