Retaining wall of Windsor stone, black and red,
signifying passions, fears, the cold of mistaken
connection with strangers staring from passing
trains while you stand alone at track seven
and wait patiently, thinking, perhaps, I come.
And I did, from a far coach, then from behind.

      Mound of dirt, mound of mulch, mixed well.

Nutrients to feed that royal air of thoughtfulness
when you do not expect I am watching, solid as
the earth beneath, moving like a moon around this
world you have strangely, perhaps intending, become
for me when I had been alone and you found me -
afterward, thoroughly, together.

      Four stones' height, circular.

Meeting at the train station; you reaching
for my fallen bag with your soft hand
I touched unexpectedly, the smile shared.

Meeting again as if by accident; sharing
the hotel's restaurant overfilled with tourists
like ourselves seeking something more.

In the morning, waking, fearing estrangement,
that we would never share again one bathroom
the sunlight through lace curtains

And the vow, you and I standing figures
upon a rich soft cake, like fragile toys
waiting to be broken. 'Seven' written on it.

      The rose: pink, perennial.

To kiss your soft pink lips, to bud from loving
you, to sink roots deep into timeless
soil, where conquerors rode then fled
the sharp thorns of loss, the trailing vine
of memory; the blooms cut then taken inside
so that scent, always you, remains.

And I have placed a garden marker
with 'seven' written upon it
where your smile lay on soft
clouds, as I recall it, looking
upward, into your blushed face

                         We've become irrelevant,
                                      in fact
                                      trivial.
                         We sit at the back doors
                                of our souls
                                in straight lines, 
                                       silent,
                                in one breath.
                               Here and there,
                          philosophers expound
                                    truth,
                            inside their sight,
                             never knowing
                          the sky has fallen,
                                    and
                                  with it
                                 the night.
                             Here and there,
                                poets sell
                                  words
                          on street corners.
                                  What
                             little is left
                                 unsaid,
                                                                           buys
                                                                                                        daily bread.
                             Here and there,
                          teachers embrace
                                                                                                 linear thought;
                                               shape
                               perfect lies
                             to hear them
                                   talk.

                                  Together
                             we step back
                             from our souls.
                        One foot in shadows;
                                 the other
                                 in twilight.
                                  Soon,
                              the sun sets
                                    and
                            night wakes alone.