Memories...

I’d forgotten…
And it for a time it was bliss
Kissing air in your place
Faced impossibly blind
By waiting lines never clearer

Five feet ahead.
42 triangular planes of angled glass
Force that man past the edges, and ever nearer
To the beveled bind
Of my vanishing mirror

I never meet anyone there
And words I conjure Impair the
Tops of poems like these
For the wood, the forest, or the Fare
Is almost never in trees

And so, beyond a brief passing
After all that curious alas-ing
Pretending those words in the wood
Made a good bird’s better wings flare
Falls like ash where the boy once stood

The weight of the man, however slight
Is further fractioned by the flight.