squirming with words,
reeling with words
sore with myself.
so sore with myself
a world of regret,
this absence of you.
O! I wish I could turn words into wishes.
O! I wish my days would fall into line
my eyes could rise for you
without the slightest disguise
Evening is so heavy, the rain has been & gone,
these days’ and nights’ penumbras,
amount to this late
English swan song.
A rose garden perfume,
the sweetest white flower of the May,
amidst the clouds of blossom above the drive
rain drops cling to the petals
while scolding tears sting my eyes.
There's mist in the garden,
'alive, he was'
his death a jasmine surprise
like the softly seeping nuances of dread,
that echo here and here, in my head.
This end of days in Palo Alto,
such heavy music infests the air,
this stretching of reality,
when we're shadowing our shadows,
with words remembering words:
and then the memory occurs
in the living air
but you're really, really not here
not there, not anywhere.