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.

18 July 2002   18:40 hours
the burning room { } race