Tales

Remembering Your Stories

They well up,
made flesh:

Time past
crawls through my bones,
opens ears and eyes
to the dance
of those long dead
spinning about me.

You keep time
with a slow, steady foot-tap
and creak of rocking chair.

Our faces, both rapt
in the same dream
reflect from windows
backed by night.

Behind the black, square pools
in which we swim
awaits a world
I swim alone.

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