there was a sadness i kept in my pocket. i pinched
the small blue corner
until it bled. i begged with open eyes,
no more mornings, no withholdings. 
i never came through, but hoped to see. 

nobody owed nothin, and nothin
was given. i never did ask, and never
insisted. i never bent over, or
offered a shoulder, or clung in desperation
to a vanishing wrist.

where are those steps now
to throw myself madly? to the door above them
that cannot open. why am i quiet, 
when did i let  my heart  go out? 

there was passion once, incandescent
that shone through mountains like
the red ends of fingers. fires that pushed the clouds, 
brought words from my mouth. something so strong,
you’d think, might persist. 

but my body has explored the swirling murk
at the bottom of the river
of the city
where i grew. i have searched the lunar surface
for a million years, spread myself thin
for even one clue. one footprint, 
one hair, one nameless bleached bone.
some trace of your heat
on the barren white stone.

how is it possible
that nothing
now lingers? this is time’s desert, i wrote of before. 
zero, forever. perhaps the shadow of a figure
slanting on the grey. from all this blankness,
how do i remember. where do i pull from
when i want to talk?

who would visit this futureless plain
to plant their flowers in chalk?