… almost lost.

By J. K. McDowell

January 2013

 

You were too well lit for the others to notice,

But I could not miss this singular gift of presence,

The shade of your fluttering heart, my sweet precious.

 

A patchwork of unfinished phrasings,

Fragmented feelings and forgotten meanings.

The frustration and fatigue of this moonlight poetry.

 

I am lucky, though often obsessed by waking

Nightmares.  At times I have seen the crows of

Memory gather in threats but never in murders.

 

Serious snacks: Black olives, pitted, sumptuous.

Sharp cheddar with chive, splendidly sliced.

Sips of whiskey and serious consequences.

 

Graphite curves, smooth with sharp endings.  Sketches and

Studies, lifetimes of finished and unfinished works.

Jim, trace the depth of form, not reflective surfaces.

 

There are dreams, soft whispers that move between souls,

Not belonging to any one voice, reciting oaths

Of ancient alliances and friendships almost lost.

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