image via "Michael Maier Atalanta Fugiens Emblem 45" by Michael Maier

image via “Michael Maier Atalanta Fugiens Emblem 45” by Michael Maier

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.

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