Possibilities Revisited
9.12.06

You rose from the ground of quarried granite and revolution,
made of things to last long past remembering.
From half-formed clay, you’ve lashed each breath
eternally ungrateful for the heedless shadows
beyond your conjure.

You’ll want to be in the driver’s seat
when we hit the sour note of the whistling rail
and dive for pebbles at the bottom. Those
headlong moments will ring clear, and
you’ll say, ‘nothing personal’
before I see the red crash end.

No doubt you’ll phoenix from the metal ribbons
whisk away the sparse dust coppering your hair
and wait, languishing on a hilltop certainty.
Return to write a starkly scathing tale
of your adventures, all related,
first or second cousins to freedom.
It will be magnificent.

You’ll send me flowers to garland
my sanitized hospital bed, gorgeous gardenia whites
paler than moonlight or any cliché.
I will miss everything about you, and
the barren gleaming sheets of the room will crinkle
as the petals descend, shrouding sarcophagus eyes.