of late
I’ve grown cold
to the ways of the world
bruised by the
easing of time

subdued by the splendor
of dreamless
intent
names rubbed away
by pieces of light

fixed to my window
by lacey white sparrows
winged past the
curtains
one night
as I lay

silent beside
the remembrance
of more
cursing the lessons
of love come before

a moment inclusive
of always

hands
O how lovely
they loved

. . .