Saturday, August 8, 2009

Poetry Year, August 8th

I know,
you know,
I know you know,
and so it goes,

This that private pang of loss,
a thorn in public side,
since it was won,
that first time I looked towards the sun
to catch his gaze.
I will never forget how he out shown the sun,
and I hoped the smile I tossed,
he would catch,
and like moth to lunar light,
be drawn to it, from his day,
into my night.

And when in distant morning glow,
he for the final time left, and had to go,
I was left, curled pillow fetal,
knowing nothing, but had to know.

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