You’ll find me
in the grassy knoll
by the coffee shop
where we had our first
date
and where you left me
for eight months of
quiet, dark
ashes
lit red
in April’s light,
thin and pale,
golden
drifts of fire
hanging
like an old
horizon’s beard,
woven and weak
at the edges, at
its seams.
You’ll find me
in the grassy knoll, sitting
on twisted, round
rocks, looking to the horizon,
trying to be
wise
in my
ashes,
at my
seams.
10/30/2014
Vancouver