Sunday, September 25

lake michigan

the way the flowers fell in april
pink against the grey skies,
against the house where you used to live-

oh, if there's even a spark in there that remembers
that things were better once; how
we fought back death that day, or the way
the colorless mornings looked on your pale face;

the silent way they were when we woke, and the warm winter nights,
the sounds of book-backings stacking together

maybe there's a spark in you that understood
the glitter of the snow in the parking lot moving around your hat
was magic--
as I pulled my coat in and shivered; or the way
I turned to gold walking back with you

oh, how they've since gutted me; but try to remember
this was beautiful once.

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