“Make time for me” she whispers, as the clouds flee.
Forgetful trains remain unseen,
as light leaves through woods beam
but all anyone really wants to hear is
‘make time for me’.
The knee-crippling power of your eyes have
no effect here
(we’re two miles out of your
out past the torch-lit diner
where you first tried to explain
the inner-workings of
speak and spells
the spot where we
buried your pet turtle,
I remember that night well,
digging that shallow grave under
a moth-eaten sky.
Afterwards, we got coffee,
and pie, but we didnt eat.
How could we eat?