You claimed me
with your crown of words,
you stirred the air
inside my frozen faith,
sip by sip,
pure nickel flatwound tones,
focused, in a solid sense
that I could feel,
taste. But today

everything is leaning
in a clammy shadow of
summer, every pastel
petal plunged to earth.
Across the room,
your guitar
wears a metal pick
like a bolo, it poses
on an ottoman and
only moves on cleaning
days; insomniac cadaver
of wood.

Words, you stacked them
one on
top of
the next,
hollow little corrugated
boxes. You knelt,

you forged the dream
and rearranged the light
to show me everything
I'm not.
And then there was you,

a pen running dry
carving empty trenches
on a list; a blister
of ink clinging.