the taste
of her memory
sweet, and bitter
lays upon the tongue
held, savored
in the silence
in the ticking solitude
of secrecy
and in the end
memories, and secrets
and solitude
are all a man has
look into the eyes
of an elder
you’ll see the remnants
a man’s dimmed-shadow soul
which daren’t injure another
these hash-marked walls
each jagged scratch, a love poem
etched with blood-tip fingers
and brittle stone
tho never read aloud
these springtime things
always end–
the same way, lovers
stone walls’ dampened certitude


with striation
our gray havens falling in
upon us

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