Portraits of our dead
From their ever dusted frames
Watch the crust of age
Portraits of our dead
From their ever dusted frames
Watch the crust of age
It's been forty years since anything
This is how I measure distance and relationships
like glaring windows
the pang of words forgotten
forgotten in kind
When her eyes withered She tip-toed the camera And Van Goghed the shot
I met my old aunt
As sharp as she ever was
Time capsule of Mom
Shuffling, my neighbor
Gently bows down to the sidewalk
A rose out of bloom
Just like prime numbers
Farther and farther apart
Come days of wonder
The truth is that I’ve become ancient
While my father is riding at the peak of his youth
An old woman spoke
Her voice and her deep green eyes
Broke through from a hump
After many years
too many cushions on the bed
and so much to tell