That love endures seems little more
than words chiseled on a tombstone. We own
the morning, you and I. The house asleep.
A light rain salts the metal roof.
The coffee black. The sky an overcast gray—
so, we simply listen to the sun rising
beyond the tree line. We know it’s there,
simply know it’s there.
What sound—does love last the day.
Do angels—what are angels anyway but
night wrestlers. Or do they watch over,
lean against the current for us.
Or are they only picking cotton growing
in the black earth. Do they know any better
where and why—could they, if they tried,
wrapped in their immortal boredom.
You are here—the now of it fragile
as fine crystal glass.
From At the Edge of Town