The day grows white with black looks.
A phantom wind bandages
the mouths of broken windows
with newspapers and leaves.
I dispatch messages, but only grass listens
before claiming a part of me.

Between breakfast headlines
and a bowl of grand illusions
I forgot how much I loved you
as you walked among the purple laughter
of thistles in a landscape where nothing
lasts forever. Here our words are unclouded;
they go on dancing after we have gone,
distilling dreams from the ashes of disbelievers.
Here among fallen school yards,
voices of children find our names
one by one

becoming their own.