THIS EVE.

There are many nights
Like this,
Hung out along the year’s washing line,
Drying out in the calm
Of the grave black space
That settles before the dawn’s jaws rattle their cage
And grab the hands of yesterday’s clock face
For themselves,
Devouring the hours shed there
As if they had not existed;

But we know what lived here,
What spilt its shrill on the day’s cloth,
What bombs dropped,
And gobs were stopped by leaden words;
What curses were returned
And earned permanent status
Or just a restless wait;
We know because we were there
Amidst the bits of missing sense
That bent time to their will.

So be still my love
On the eve of this weekend’s anniversaries
That commemorate leaving,
And leaving again,
And hold yourself close
For me,
As I will for thee,
And together we
Will see tomorrow remembered well
One day.