Untitled.

There was the day you were with me in the park-

there were no benches forus to sit

so we nestled together in the lap of some

accomodating tree roots and took turns

reading to each other from a book of poetry.

 

The poems weren't love poems- maybe one

or two were- but we were in love, then, and so

that found its way into every corner of our

lives, into our voices and into the words we read.

 

We shared that summer day- Remember

how the sunlight spilt over the leaf tops and spotted

our intermingled arms, how the wind blew your

soft hair against my face and snapped against the

verdant flag of still-green grass around us, how

little sprays of sand flew up around a large dog

and a small dog as they raced under sagging

volleyball nets?

 

Well that day-

Now it belongs to me, alone.

 

The book, I found not too long ago-

it is dangerous, sometimes, to open up

old attic boxes- and I reread some of the

poems, even read a few aloud to the

attic dust-

 

but it was no good.

 

The sound of the words was

no longer the same.

There were no subtleties or tones anymore-

like listening to a symphony where all the

andantes and allegros have been ripped

from the sheet music-only dull blasts of

percussive beats remained.

 

It is dangerous to open old attic boxes

because that terrible dumb music may

spill out from them. You may be unable

to close it back up again. It might spill

down the attic steps, staining the carpets,

first, then pool up and stain where the

curtains lightly touch the floor. It might

 

creep up the walls and into the face of

the wall clock and behind, inside the

clock's works and now it is in the

calendar and when summer

comes finally again, you don't know-

 

just don't know

how will it look?