Postscript

Watching as the automaton
sketched lines across a sheet
of art paper, I wondered
what messages I might send
from the hereafter—
Even the dead elm tree
still glows pale green,
grey bark hosting small
bits of incandescence.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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2 Comments


  1. POST POSTSCRIPT

    If leaving were easy and found myself
    in a hereafter, I might find these words
    for you (if thoughts and our pillow-talk
    could still cut through the walls-on-walls
    of dark nights and blank sheets stiffened
    into cold knife-edged shields guarding
    against our talking to each other again):

    “Leave the window open, let the branch
    grow close to it, you will find me there
    scrambling among bridges of moonlight,
    starlight, sunlight, even flickers from your
    turned-down lamps, singing those little
    songs I always sang to keep the fine rhythm
    of my pats on your thighs, caresses to put
    you to sleep on warm nights you thought
    were not made for slumber or some such.”

    Reply

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