in my inkblot notebook
I can see you just as I am,
kept by
you as
your own
imagined filigree,
some number of pages deep beneath
a
foreign greeting:
how long will we remember
how we could not bare to see
the
rising rust redact our
desperate attempts at
alchemy?
a reign of gilded silence lost
to a hum of railroad steal
but had I drawn you
out from the paper,
I could know Even for
a moment
that ephemeral conviction
of purpose
an instant of communion
in otherwise
parallel
lives