Stray Parts Return

When I open an old book of your images odd, truncated visions, gilings clipped from once longer threads, fall out; something else, a partial picture of what we left in each other. I am modulated by memory, the slow simmer of a salmagundi’s long lingering throes and pangs. There is much more but the fade-out is leaching your light away. Maybe one day we will catch each other’s breaths, be bundled together as close as newborn lambs in a mutual wool of remembrance.