the traverse

Each day fills full
heaves a word past blot
with much to tell
on each strange street
not without love
nothing will tell
on our groove
until we can be still.

Forget how to time
night’s wee tomb
or what is home
must be warm.

We can’t say one
but picture stone.



That talk about morn
each day’s small pain
too late to return
to mistimed noon.
Strange how we burn
skin to rosy bloom
the holes in the sun
turn age to crime.

If only we’d seen
the leaf’s green hem
without heat’s harm
in a car’s long dream.

No cloud obscures
the drape of flowers.

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