Some endings are final; not every ending is.
Smoke and form and perfume hook –
a collage of wished pictures:
edit our faces in;
phantom sheaves in pastel dream:
is that all it was, that perfect stream?
It does seem that only sin
would crush life beneath strictures
when we were next in the book.
–but this age is a mixture
of springtimes that can’t begin
until they break through the screams
of previous nightmares: beams
of our future have been dimmed
by carcinogen fixtures
that dislodged our fragile nook,
which might yet return.
Love this.
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Glad you enjoyed it! It was one of those rare poems that popped out in about an hour, under rather sad circumstances. I posted it about as soon as it was written.
The only other poem I’ve written like that, which I can think of, is this: https://intotheclarities.com/2014/10/05/a-pine-tree-glowing-in-the-sunset/
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