This summer I can sing
the songs of the caged warrior
singing to the rough anonymity of trees,
and here, on these branches
I can leave the shell of my armour
like the shells of forgotten words
recalling everything we once knew.
Time— what is it?
It is the symbol of a man who loved cloud and mist,
Time— what does it matter?
We made flowers and sunlight
and bracelets of train
Now I can sing the bright, crackling words
in the memory of songs
begging forgiveness of butterflies,
and beauty that we destroyed in our hunt for life.
Time— slanting across the land,
Time will tell what it means
loving from a distance.
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