merry-go-round

 

in the suddeness of waking
the room orange-lit
by alien probes
or
street lamps arced through snow

                     I am certain you are dead

and nothing
      the rhythm of the dog's
     step to the fence
silence
      and wait

                     tells me different

if
among the leaves or flowers of an unknown season
of a swing of constantly
passing days
                     I am able to forgive you
our loss

    touch again with knowing hands
knowing
    that beauty has lost touch

eyelids only
I have lost the colour blue

but the sky
the sky
the

purposeless
ness

of the softly moving mornings

and I have never been afraid of death
until he came for you