08/03/09

I think some day we'll cross
upon some dewy pass
mid-morning.
High above the postcard valley
we'll talk of stonecircles
and sweating ham sandwiches
- the last time we were here.

We woke early, in arms
and fingers knotted
like the towers of a fort.
The warmth of the day
broke in
and lay with us on ironed linen
and the muscles of your shins.

Though childhood fells
may lie a little further than
my arm extends;
Though the spring-wound city
breeds stolid air and iron trees
at it's borders
- tangled metal hair,
the tightening web of my transactions;
Though you are nothing
but a trick of the day's last light
refracting off my edged nostalgia;
When I breathe deeply enough
I smell your skin.