The Lateness of the Hour
I come to our conversation late
my dear, and in chains —
spinning memories below the wall
of half-forgotten, half-overheard promises.I reflect on
the last days of spring on
— emotionality —
before the core of your program
relaxes, releases, rewrites
the never-final revision
of our story
all over again.This, this:
no-one you know.
Leave a Reply