Later when we were older
later, you would tell your children
about the year of the guns
about the park that had once been a landfill
about how things came to be made
in the image of the past
in the darkness of a room
there was someone once
who told you about the world
electric religion
about perfume
and the smell of books
of being young and showed you the storm
inside the shelter
someone, living
at the top of the stairs
you used to go to see her there
but there is now no one
sitting at your feet
we forgot but never forgave
it was time to say
everything and much too late
the lines creep into the mirror
the light fades softer
and the radio only plays
the songs I knew
after I was through
with the time that was you
and signified the rest
of everything that could be fixed
except that you nor I would want it
that way because then we could no longer
understand what it would have meant
to the concept of possibility
opening up in the face of losing
what had seemed to be everything
over again through the porous surface
of what has now become a rock
the telephone rings
you cannot answer it
in the naked hour of day ending
a truth that you are beginning
to understand in spite of time
in spite of the winter
in spite of reaching
for one’s self and touching bottom
not that you could have given any of it back
were we to have the choice
it is just the deception
of memory
that this is not a story
we have lived a thousand times
that I have seen in the corners of your face
in the way the smile haunts and disappears
in the things we never speak about
in the place that believes
that nothing
is worth more
than this day.