12 July 2012

Continental Drift

this continental drift, as
inevitable as ice cream on
a summer day, the
creamy beads dripping down
their fingers

at the very last, the door
slammed an exclamation
mark to end the sentence
counted out in years, the
papery-thick greeting cards
standing at attention
on the mantel

the spines of his books
still unbroken, smooth to
the touch, some others, better read,
titles obscured to the eye

she counts them, one, two, three,
then loses track and must
start again, anew

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