“And sentiment, fruitless as dust in cupped hands”
And
is so very inclusive. A knotted ampersand
joined up in a glyph, like the also you of me.
Trailing that sense of the furthermore, a dreamer's
sentiment
out from the soul's depths. At times a shallow ripple
a belief it's just fast food for valentines on the go.
I keepsake you still in 3-D though any sense of we is
fruitless.
In this very singular afterlife, the point is taken,
a cornucopia mostly empty, trees quite often bare.
But these winters have had the plumiest blues
as
what? What shall I liken them to? Those eyes
from a Cossack genepool, still with a hint of pillage?
Since then you've passed, in the way that
dust
settles after footfalls across forsaken floors. I dredge
imagery, pluck memory specks from air. Smutty fragments
went with your ashes clean out to sea. Here I remain
in
love of sorts, with a rakish ghost What matters most
is within, interiors that can shut out the dark, since fatalism
has become so fashionable. There's a shell
cupped
to my ear for listening to the rub of tides over stone.
Its a concave bell, a breathing sea exhaling ozone
for our inspiration. Holding me hollow without
hands.
And so I help others picking over tidelines.
We write our names at the waters edge and clap
each one that's washed away. A passing ovation.
Epigraph line from my poem “My Move“, unbundled as acrostic alongside the word definitions and associations for my MTB prompt: Taking a Fine Line Down
PoetryPix 