The old men talk-
whispering poetry
to one another.

Eagerly they lap
small elegances of this woman
or that-
plucking at her petals
to warm themselves again
by her once-love.

“She was swanlike,” they say, “Thrown there in winter’s lap,
her eyes were the hearth I walked to;
her passion
was
unmatched…”

Time blunts sharp truths.
The hard edges give way to rabbit-softness
and a gentle succulence.
She is
candlelit, blurred
without the inconvenient sharp bones of
who she was

or the words grooved deeply
into her journal pages
by oh-so-elegant agony
as it writhed, letterlike
birthing a broken world in two words-

“He left…”
(Written/Submitted by GlassSlippers)

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