November 18, 2014

more than this



i could whittle away
a small piece of wood.
maybe your face would appear
after about ten thousand years

i think i could,
if i had 
the time.

the wind whistles your song
but i don't know the words
it was so far
ago

or maybe
you were mumbling.

or maybe
i don't hear well
anymore.

the minutes are compacting
like old discarded cars
all muscle and metal
smashed into a cube.

i wonder if a strand of my hair
was left behind
so fine and light
holding hands with the fibers of your pillowcase.