The end of things comes into view,
sometimes at night � gently swirling –
I let it carry me down
but your touch on my neck lingers..
dangerously!
Lost things express themselves obliquely
in memory’s song.
Tramps and thrushes
mingle in a midnight’s dream.
Still the sense is one of you
and the night follows day.
A shady corner in a forgotten room
sunbeams and time to breathe.
Did it all matter
in the end?
the toys were scattered
on so many floors
in our pasts, multiplying
eyes dim,
with foggy recollections at last
and all stops in our minds
to something like peace.
