I’m kept here where I’m kept.
To dream of lost things, little trinkets of you
In this bleak of distance, empty wilds of the soul
where you still live,
and move through me, like you moved through rooms
where love was once sown in little pots on the sill
under many-fingered oak leaves that sieved shadow from sun.
But, we too,
had our solstice.
In the bluebitter of wintered hearts,
ahstray in sidelong silences,
we found our love ailed us.
Now, through so many hours
so many pens speak
so many images of you,
in black and white swirl-snow of words
at the dark edges of your uncollected light.
Aloud, when I read these words
and in silence, touch their scars on the page
the static of lost things sparks,
I’ve come to know not, the day from the night.
I know them just the same.
And if a new day were to break,
would I find it broken?