There’s a town
in a drawer
on a page
of a map
in a room
of a house
in that town.

And like love restrained
as a name,
it fades
as memory fades.

And the wind doesn’t blow.
And the rain doesn’t fall.
And the moon doesn’t glow
in her eyes.

No sleeve, coat,
fingers reaching.
No words for the
lips speaking.

It’s a thin thread
that binds us to existence.
All fortunes known,
less precious than remembrance.
So it goes
we save those tender hours
for tomorrows.

stars mark no distance.
Light and dark withdraw
from definition.
we can spend these
tender hours.

You knew me before I knew myself –
gave meaning to everything you showed.
What do I know without you –
just husk and shadow?
I thought I heard something.
Let’s have another look around.

It’s a thin thread…
It’s a thin thread…

© 2001.