in the lost gallery of memory
I find a piece
of my dishevelled childhood,
unslivered and whole, none
of the edges fraying nor torn.
Already dust is settling
on each footstep,
flaked mud suspends
in dank air; but the light
is clean and the silence
helpful. All the trees
are whole, each leaf
unburdened with the weight
of its falling, the shade they offer
still a cipher of comfort.
Although the scenes differ,
you are there also.
You lack my scraped knees,
matted hair, my headlong
tumble into blood and grass.
But you know this place:
A distant bell is about to ring,
the slow erasure of your breath
from this earth has already begun.
Lying there, breathless and whole
the sky disappearing
into the blue
reaches forever.
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