A Field of Himself

March 9, 2011
My clouded reflection
A love
So quiet , I still can’t hear it.
But I’ve grown so weary of
Painted rows of delicate gold
To stand there, numbly, quite sure
Moments ago he didn’t exist.
He might be claiming this field
As his own, centering himself in it
Slanted against morning
And I still wonder
Waiting…





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