the picket fence
1
the nights of our Novembers
they turned so naturally together; so naturally, apart
"don't forget to close our garden's gate"
you whispered from the start.
2
the hearth that held an era's hopes
upon its endless— always— ever warmth
but what good is that with dead men near
and keen hands hunger for the dark.
3
a love that has lain beside the cornerstone
half of which to give, half of which you'll take
two halves of wholes in tepid throes
for what shall we forsake.
4
gentle huffs of generosity, upon skin
stripped of bones for recompense
asleep beside cornered misery
as you hang your pride upon your picket fence.
5
ashes to asphalt ever after as intended
requited ends beneath a blanket of surmise
we ebb and flow, as endings go
finality arrives
6
like hot tea tumbling upon the table,
between the sounds of cooling ember:
"don't forget to close our garden's gate."
7
why can't I remember.
