In Time --

kindness, there, it

is sure --

we have ourselves

to blame -- the eye

sees us, coalesces, bringing

into being

a warming fire -- we

are the old bones

by the riverside searching

out lullabies once forgotten now sung

as canons, villanelles, or

submerged sonatinas --

you, with the black mane streaming

in the wind, counting

backwards,

seeking union

you have at your disposal

an arsenal of

untuned instruments, strings

about to break, valves oiled, the

conductor's baton

stilled for a moment -- would

you stand on this beach, here, alone,

waiting for me

to emerge

from the foam? --

*