Anniversary of a Poem

 

The years run like gold

They are nothing, like Anniversaries

Of being alone, being by ourselves

Morning floods my senses

 

Not unlike years before

The Noon hangs low with quicksilver

Flames, knowing my weaknesses

But midday is pure, unaltered

 

The state of prime numbness

Opaque like familiarity

The touch of love, it's been so long

How could I be satisfied?

 

The years they still run like gold

How merciful are the changes

That leave suffering cast adrift

In memories of long ago

 

At times I have been wounded by myself

I do not forget the essential fact

Foolishness is in my words.