Passing Evening

I’ll be there some future evening

with the windows open

curtains languidly twirling

while the breeze

slips in through the screen

moving like a shadow

across the plain

of his face

A raising

a prickling of memory

silent and soft

as a season


waning into the next

He’ll sit

and think of me

For one quick second

I’m someone he might miss

There are secrets he kept

like whispers

just out of reach

or songs

I never heard clearly

only notes

on the stirring air

of some summer storm

to come

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