If she left it there-

crumpled notes of poems for him,

balled-up emotions on thin blue lines,

a blue- no- not like that pale glow of his eyes,

of youth embracing the wisdom of the tortured,

or the impulsive transparency of a man grown,

a flowery word or poetic fantasy

not enough this time

to push away behind shuttered lies

the intensity he defines

stripped bare

to a column of long cotton whites

in the eyes-met-connect

of so many words left unsaid-

If she left it there-

the blood red blanket they made love on

until late into the night and then sunrise (comes)

there beneath the gnarled finger branches

of time’s passing tree of life,

then they’d meet for one second-

(blinking, blinking)

and stop the clocks

its ticks and tocks

that now keep them

too far apart.