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neath the clutter
of september
the roof is hanging on
weathered there as passion to exhume
soft a bed of feathers
wilts within the storm –
where watches now
the blue become
the moon

every reason
for where and when we were –
easing into everything
we fade
passions wear to wanting
for years beyond the ache
how we were
before this mess
we made

blink a sure escape
sorrows without shame
locks were never meant to keep the door
crouched against the memory
of almost all we had
maybe I’ll remember
something more

than ashes
in my coffee –
longing come and gone
dishes without match
to all we said
leaving gets forsaken
by the want to stick
around –
sheets no longer fitted
to the bed

. . .