Preoccupation

The last verse of a poem becomes a mourning song
        and the golden leaved trees in a forever
                                                     fall
                                                       accompany
                                                       and lull
and bind
with precious strings,
                              so many small deaths.

The link of a friendship, once - a replaying
                                                                  note
and our fingers untwine, release, simply to scale this instrument of passing.

In time becomes in tempo
as if overnight
and in place becomes a pulse; stretch of second chance -
a stanza translating back to ode, and if either
melody or epic might speak to you, I'd sing or
write.

Your conscience is mine, slopping sloppy, blurred
and sick.
This gift of imperfection detected through all the
words you can not say.
So, the mistakes we made
                          together,
but now alone I'm finding rest
and this
peace,
   a gift I would compose
           if only I
     could find the form that in any hour past would lift.

The Sunday Whirl