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Sunday, May 3, 2009
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The years have passed
like sunshine through an empty house--

with scent of pine,  the clear summer cries
of children--all that memory detains

and worships in locked rooms.
Where you, first love, lie cool

and unchanging, kept by the night--
that November, in front of Kevin’s fireplace

with the white dog between us,
the premise of its downy pelt

that joined our hands,
the shrine in your palm

where I approached, at last, and began
this journey into skin