Thursday, September 24, 2009



Evening ash adorns the windows of the spaces
you left behind, like a sash of memory that
hangs on a vacant wall.

Yellow is a fraction of the cost rendered
in forgotten dust, the fingerprints on my
pillow flesh that aches for yesterday.

I am caught like a stone coral whimper
between a shout, but the shadows silence
such chagrin.

Today numbers fall like rain, all the dates
you occupied like a freshly baked pie
occupies a sill.

I can smell the air vaguely , the traces
that fall like tepid rain upon my brow,
blowing like a train mist, hollow.

I am at a loss for the words.

Coffee permeates my skin in a hue of regret,
you dwindle like a cypress, all soft branched
and blowing like a soft westerly wind.

I call out to ghosts without response, and
like a sheet wrinkle, dismayed by my lingering
thoughts and the face I can't leave behind.

Kevin Harling.

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