Traces of a Friend

October sunk the grass
Enough to tell us
Where the caskets set.

The ones who hadn’t stones,
So only in the heavy rains
Could they be paid respect,
Their limits traced in ruts
To map the cemetery plaid.
We’d give them names
And cigarette butts at lunchtime.

Mud made pains to keep us then,
Begging at our heels,
And it was louder
When the waxing cold
Lent substance to a smoky breath.

Those friends in fall
Without but truant
Words to hear,
With rain to make them
Vivid and with wasted nicotine.

#Paris #France

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s