Saturday, June 10, 2006


There must be a lake
the tracks come to
that leave your place.
A spot of isolation
like an apartment.
If afterwards we forget there
what did we feast on?
I hardly know you.
Why did you live?
This finite summer
stops by the road
are all red, all wicked.
I thought you were a self.
I thought, someday.
If the dreams will continue.
If there's damnation.


didi said...

David - I like this. I am wondering if it should be live or leave? I am going to wander over to your blog to see what else there is there.


Jill said...

lovely poem, david.