From the Grave

Countless days
we walk together
in the gray half-light
to both ignore and reclaim time.

Sometimes it is dusk,
sometimes dawn,
and I can only tell
the hour
by whether I find you
young and beautiful
or frail and fading,

yet I am always
what I’ve become:
time weary and distant
from any touch.

It it an illusion,
a trick of the mind,
that calls you here
and more and more
I see only
your youthful gaze.

I fall further
into a sepia toned past
where I dream
all was safe

before the fire and falling
before the hard exile
before time separated me
from everything.

Maps

Were always lines
cast toward lands
I’d one day see. Whole worlds
rested within a dot,
and there were always more
dots (beyond rivers, past oceans)
marked London, Beijing, Paris, Canberra,
Rome, Reykjavik, an endless catalog
of possibility.

The blue passion of Pacific
Ocean isles, white distance
falling away from Everest,
tan grasses swimming
over African savanna.

Age shrinks hope
to a cold, hard longing
as I flip pages
of vast distance
never crossed.