She
By her prose a palace built;
Dioclesian, marble-carved.
Every verb sinks to the hilt
And settles there, trailing silt
And I chip away grammar,
With us in museum-lull;
Statuesque, sans what glamour
Was burst by the sledgehammer
Of Distance (Your best defence),
In cautious doubting tiny taps
Around the surface. Nouns tense,
Tasting such salt-permanence.
I dust your indelibly-
Sung radiant cadences
(Me still now in minor key).
Ever monumental - She.
Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2016
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