A Kind of Loss
The lake tires of lake
and begins reflecting tree.
Her eyes shake free their calm azure.
That black dress worn often in age
tonight upon her delicate frame
compares less to night.
Walking these evenings
along the familiar banks of the river.
I’ve fallen in love with Autumn’s namelessness,
the unvoiced bridge
between swim and skate,
clothes morphing colors,
flesh morphing colors,
street signs rusting off single letters,
and in the letters remaining
a temporary city
winding into silent rooms,
shutters groaning like the faces of old coins.
Yellow strands threaded through night.
All those sleep shapes
chipping away the wallpaper
flaking to the wet carpet
of this rented Prague flat,
where little squares of sky over brick
translate streetlights and blindfolded cathedrals
originally shaken as love from the clouds-
too distant and temporary
to protect their meaning.
-published by White Whale Review