Each stone of the late light falls and spreads, rippling, across sightsurface
to shift the leaves of memory into torrents of page, into tripping mists that,
darling, I will likely not remember.
Each drift slips past with careen intact, torquing in driptime, knocking the
fluttered figures of postern butterflies, left behind to guard the escape of
a single, silken moth.
I am true to you, as the fallen are true to the earth, and the last shooting tendril
is true to collapsed eye-bud, and slipping snail. I am true to my wormed core.
