“My poignant luxury…” ~ Emily Dickinson

When we returned, all the leaves of the fig
had fallen, and those of the Japanese maple;

the bare ground, covered in tearable
wrappers of the after all easily shed.

All day a glimmering sky spoke in fragments
as if time were sending postcards: how we walked

by the river, how the wind slipped the taste
of moss and salt under our tongues; how I called

when you walked too fast, how at night on the cool
sheets you always fell asleep before I did.


In response to Via Negativa: Late Bloomer.

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