and i can not be,
here, not tonight,
a dying vine,
these memories
twisted backward, embers of a life
retreating back to the earth
with thoughts, evolved
to die
an ego, regressed, wailing
a baby to suckle
tainted milk from a withered teat
a window closing
wooden tracks, worn
the loom, dismantled, the tapestry
unraveling, these dreams
the lustre, forgotten
and this door ajar
a breeze, and i remember
your skin, when it was
a river, the blood of an angel
and of love
and now to sit with these legs
useless, trembling
hands reaching out
for nothing
Greg Alston is a gardener, cook, father and some other things, too.
Boulder Weekly accepts poetry and flash fiction submissions at 450 words/35 lines or fewer and accompanied by one-sentence bio of the author. Send to [email protected]
