The wandering rocks have no shore. Sleep off love.
The only end to romance, good or bad,
is death. You may as well enjoy living.
Our clash, its come and go, a moving thing.
Hunker in your house. Greet her, entering.
This was the old story, it is the new
multivolume novel of the known life.
Hereafter all is lost to memory.
There were so many who came before us.
There were always those who divided us.
You drew the first line, then I the second;
off stage, waiting, freshly minted stand-ins.
In his blindness, Homer traced the new maps
with the moon’s tides, the wild wind-crashing waves.
(for BR, R.I.P.; PJ; MJ; & most of all, KL)
(7 May 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander