The skies are moving fast these days,
They rip across dragging chins along the pavement
And taking the light against their bellies in
Pinks reflected in the oils of old masters.
The air sinks cold to my chest and
Against my ribs now pillars in churches –
Clean and indifferent.
Something snaps in the woods,
In the snatched view between sinking trees
There is the ghost of a man.
On his bench and waiting,
His companion carved there never came.
She slipped into the pond, between algae sheets
And let the weeds take her.
Bent like a bow sending scudding arrows across the undergrowth.
He is waiting for her face that sunk.
And he cannot swim
His arms won’t beat for her in this wood.
On their bench his arms won’t beat.
Swimming is like flying and the crows caw.
But his arms will not beat.
Instead he lets the rain fill his boots and the
Arrows scud into the undergrowth.
The skies move on fast, bringing heavy night.
And he fades like a ghost should.
I read their names on the bench as I soak up the cold.
And my boots fill with rain.