Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

A Memory of Her

Sprinkled leaves leaped and spun and
gently spattered out Morse messages
for me, for you. Little love letters.

Your hand in mine. My hand trailing
loosely through the sun and thousand
vagrant breaths of strangers.

Gininderra on our left, twinkling.
Stark crow crowned hills of dust
and pine shouldering boulders on our right.

This was our day; this is how I hold it
gently in my mind still. You, sweet girl,
your shaking hand in mine.

Fear had thumbed shut your eyes and
made me transparent. It could have been acid.
It would have made no difference.

I knew and drank your tremor in;
trying to spread you
trying to stretch the little
the stinging meagre little I had garnered
and subsist.

My intestines screaming, neck as stiff
as your resolve -

Your resolve to love me with
a cupped palm, full of spilling hours.

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