metonymy4u

With your fingers I follow spell dust on tables
in the house where only sun and sunlight leave their mark,
looking for the lies I know you told yourself
to make night go faster.

When I was 17.

I wish someone had warned me then how suffering
is the only teacher of itself and causation. How cheated
of sight finally Cézanne learned to draw only what he saw
through both eyes.

I would not stage manage even the rain.

Though I worried storm fronts were nothing
but an excuse for wandering under a castle we discovered
to delay your departure by bus in separate directions,
never to love again. Lastly, I whispered to the road that death should keep my promise.

That a dream wine you should drink to guard your door.