I put my hands through the ceiling. Stretch

my fingers between rafters cobwebbed

with memories. There have been rivers

finding their way through shingles, tar paper,

and misspent nails. Is it a question of scale or

of truth. Meanderings along joists to drip from

eaves unnoticed. Silverfish do not swim

though they leave a wake. But that is not what

I was looking for; there was a star I could not reach

or the spruce that rattles in the wind. Needles

bright with hidden light.

It does no good to find your name but I remember

your lips, the swirling jewel of darkness catching

at the corners. The bright burst of laughter and the

softly shaded words. The sun was burning hot for you

while the trees dropped their gold at your feet.

I betrayed myself with every glance. The cheap

perfume of memory lingers while the locks close

around a small breath

.