Tuesday, April 17, 2012

This Book Of Us.



Wrote this one a few years back. It's been begging to see the light of day.....





The gilding is gone
From the binding
Of this book of us
Our pages are torn
Our edges worn
And all our corners
Cut or creased

I should have seen
How often it stayed shelved
How even the flowers
Pressed between our pages
Had turned to dust

I guess I should’ve noticed
Chapters growing shorter
The dialogue drying up
The language terse
And tender less

And so I shouldn’t have been surprised
When as I turned to the last page
The story of us
Stopped suddenly
Summed up succinctly
So moribund
So matter-of fact
In those two little lonely words 
The end



2 comments:

  1. bring them poems out into the daylight, Mark! I love the part about dried, pressed flowers-sad but so clear. I haven't thought of pressing flowers in years...but I did it as a girl all the time. I may have to do it again her in SoCal. :) Merci.

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    1. Aw shucks. Thanks Emily. Sometimes I feel like making connections to lost thoughts and forgotten memories is one of the most universal aspects of poetry. Glad you got back pressed flowers, glad I was brave enough to post this one.

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