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.
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