You never seemed closer
than when the winter’s mirror
showed the moon through a window
we no longer shared together.
It had moved beyond the frame,
outside of the domestic pressures
to come to a consensus.
Arresting me now
from this unsteady position,
appearing marble over sculpted edges,
it succumbs to the falls.
For a time you receded
into the memory of travel.
What we felt was fixed
seemed to unravel
into a distorted image
that once had symmetry.
It was a shared architecture
balanced perpetually over water,
on the far end of slumber
we’d pass through Alhambra.
Light and shadow a shifting mosaic
perfecting the illusion of order.
It shades the gypsy within
a forgotten square,
somewhere the faint sound of strings
that know no completion.
All the poems resting in woven shoulder bags
share their scraps of awe,
untidy and retreating to far flung places.
There the moon is watching,
like an ancestral eye,
witness to the chaos
that in time plateaus.
It sees these windows are cleansed.
What we had closed is now flung open
as it ascends the back trellis,
cold sheets over the flower beds,
the moon is a punctuation of silence,
a trial that comes to completion,
an illuminated mile to float on
as time allows us to revive a dead ocean,
an unfolding dream
an unbroken seam,
as it coils around the wave break sound
to the far horizon where eyes bid farewell.
If this is my last view,
if today is a good day to depart
with a subtle wake,
it would always be worth it.
yakskinpocketnotes 