Poem for Thursday, August 30, 2012

Years Later

here is what's left:

             
              fields of soy and wheat, wilting

              a hundred god-poking steeples

              the memory of her scent, the

incense half-burned

dropping carbon into silver cups

not among them:


              polka-dotted skirts, navy

              atlantic oceans and the like

              the glides and fricatives of, listen

the thing about love is

it is a transient toting a single bag

stopping for no one