it was always fingers caressing lattice.
white and dull americana with
slow metronomes in our pockets..
pouring whiskey’d lemonade into nightly graces.
imagine the bewilderment as
a sharp pang shot through the crevices
and began a bitter ache..
a sour wherewithal growing
ardent in our breast.
we would have to bury ashes
in wet and vibrant marshes,
that much we always knew.