We grew; our poem drifted
Through the halls
Like dust-mote shards of fiberglass above
Our silent kisses. Beside an empty fireplace
In nude caresses
You and I held love.

Now apart,
Unfinished is almost.
Inside it smells of pure unpainted wood.
Leaves fall for it and long grass covers it.
Our poem thrives without us:
fieldsweet and good.

If finished with unsung
I would not stay
To feel the polished floors go cold and white.
Instead I'll sleep on my uneven lines
And dream we may
Return one starry night.

That night our undone poem
Will loosen Time
As you and I in warmth of darkness climb
Unsanded stairs. And you will, smiling, hold
My hands and whisper
Children's songs of pirates' gold.