they leave great potholes
when they pass away,
we tumble in so willingly
some are even given names...
like: "god please help me"...
"cant go on without you"...
"ever since, every day is death"...
they jar us back to sweetened times
before the beast grabbed the throat,
when forever sat plump on virgin vines
funny thing these potholes
nothing can fill them in
matter of fact they get deeper and wider
with the spade of time
we have to swerve around them
into the oncoming lane
face first into somebody else's pothole
and these potholes are lonely-clever -joining together
till every living breath becomes a big black hole teather
filled with things that fasten tight to death...
dear mother hold my crumbling hand
(spring vines of yesterday)
a forty five year climb
from one pothole to another,
there's no peace until i become the pothole for another.