There must be a lake
somewhere
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.
2 comments:
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.
d.
lovely poem, david.
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