You,
Who once was the unending object
With the infinite number of
Sides, angles, and intersections
Reflecting the
Shattered figure
Only we
Could
See.
The greatest gift:
You,
Who could always go about
The business of your life
In spite of...
The greatest trick:
You,
Who could always stare back
At yourself
While peering forward.
You,
Who who could so easily
Stretch
And grow
Into.
You,
Who, for us,
Was always that
Lingering message
Etched
In perfectly confident,
Yet somehow
Unchanging lines.
...and the tighter he held on
To your secret language,
The more
He anticipated
Your touch,
The more he dreamt
of your voice,
The faster
You
Slipped
Away into the days
of your unborn children.
In the end,
I imagine,
He attempted
To curl himself
Into the womb
Of your
Absence
One
Last
Time.
I cannot claim
to know
You
Now,
But sometimes
Late,
The empty playground
Across
The street
Waiting
For the Children
To return
It to
Life Again,
I think
I have an idea
Of all
The details
You
Never
Whispered.
Los Angeles - 8/18/05
