Golden Age


we thought we lost you,
in a room full of oaks
and leaves turned
while you wore your dark
overcoat, and whispered
into our ears,
the sounds of angels
and the songs of
born into dust.


in a slow dancing society,
you weaved,
and you swivelled,
with beautiful arms flailing.
and we watched you,
like impatient children
waiting for a swing. but
that was the last we ever
saw of you; under the
shimmering lights,
with people
in your
pale palms,
and a gentle
in your hair.


your feet were draped in the water,
and little sparrows
whistled nearby,
as the water rustled
past and left your skin
glittering, in the
sun’s august gaze; while
we watched you splash
the ducks, with our
purple blankets
and plastic


all the things you said,
that careened through
the air, and drew patterns
in our lives; we’ll engrave
on the empty walls
in our houses. and amidst
the tapestry you gleaned,
and in listless nights
showed to us, with a half
broken flashlight,
we’ll stand in the
pouring rain
in our backyards with
our eyes closed;
a collective yearning,
for that one
last dance
from you.


6 thoughts on “Golden Age

  1. And the days are not full enough

    And the days are not full enough
    And the nights are not full enough
    And life slips by like a field mouse
    Not shaking the grass

    – Ezra Pound.

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