Memory’s a dark glass held to the lips
Drink it, it turns to ice
It’s a mad March hare, boxing shadows
A hole in a hedge that the wind whistles through
From the dog eared pages of yesterdays,
Longing slips the leash
Is a worm under the skin,
Burrowing
The mourner regrets the face that has faded from memory
Leaving a headless body
The lover who filled that slippery blue silk dress
Has gone into the nameless address of the past
Under the grass,
Under the grass
Into the house of the mole
The small blind mister
Her final squeeze
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