the kind with the little orange plugs
recall my small room that you no longer occupy
trees and the rays that shoot through
like pillars of your smile
and the precious warmth of your breast-
nowadays a fledgling bird stands in your holy place
and you yourself seem content in walking without socks
no longer careful how black your feet get –
even though it’s a terrible idea to give up here,
i have spotted even through the dim precipice
the slowly wilting edelweiss.
it’s cliche, perhaps, to wish
to hope those fruitless hopes
to consider dark, warm, unfamiliar corridors
i have continued to search
for you, and your pleasant sighs
the small hairs of your arm near smooth.
this place is dark now, like it was then.
and somehow, i wonder terrible things.