THE TRAIL OF YOUR FOOTSTEPS
The trail of your footsteps
graved in the ground
become peaceful angels
following the blonde star’s glint
as your shadow becomes a
silhouette—
a four month dead betrayal to
the sun.
Your spicy cologne still
moves
like a bouquet of violet dancers
melting like ice on pine
trickling drops of salt
as they kiss the earth with
your rosemary lips.
Your melodic acid still
races
between hairs on your arms
to corduroy—
snug against your thighs.
Eyes of burgundy,
tears of rust
my parallel fists
forgive my blindness
as your footprints
fill with dew.
—from Rattle #9, Summer 1998
Tribute to Children
