Wednesday, September 24, 2008

At the airport, saying goodbye,
had a sense, finally,
I was at home

between us, the plot of land ever moved
to ice by our in-turning hands---
gestures approaching snow:

there, as if firstly, felt my fingers on her
red hair, not as fire, but as color,
deprived of its object.

What she was and is now
to me is as the arson and his charred
no different in color.