III
it was poison you wrote,
to be here alone close enough to smell me.
an engine started and i stood obscure,
the first time in two decades, gazing out the window.
knowing you must leave.
we traveled alone, together
and stood at that edge and knowingly crossed.
once across cold cataracts blinded us
to what little space was left.
to what little time remained.
we moved old debris in an ancient river.
old paper and ink.
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IV
we were libraries unread,
closed dark cobwebbed places.
rooms of exchange lit by candle and perfume.
sweet wet ancient, benign.
full of idea, song and design.
where one might pass days as currency
spending language sober and clean.
there were doors to those rooms
clicking on creaking hinges
that i passed through, sat and read,
and waited absent mindedly, waited impatiently,
waited in anger, and in peace,
waited while absorbing words.
V
fine lines etch my face these morning,
hash marks cut deeply to celebrate
each sober click of time.
i remember when torn bits of paper scattered across the table,
used to mark my place so that i might return and see
what i loved, what i hated, and where was the line.
