Sooner or later all things run a course,
usually theirs, but not always.
The course was not yours. Mind your decorative trim.

From her mouth immaculate moments tumble;
a torrid shine.

Your decorative trim, your ornamental gilded
absence swings again.
Your ornamental trim is no longer gilt.

When you walk down the stairs, your buddy
(not your breath) is waiting, swinging
with a girl, hair black as loss, twice as beautiful.

Your buddy is struck down.

But she loves you. But neither are there.

You meet him with a lady your own,
so yielding she cannot stand.

The sun's senseless loss is our life.
Swinging loose it minds those crusty mornings
of a decorative past when breath was your buddy
and a strong senseless sun lost.

When the ambulance arrives paramedics question
the lost black hair, the woman in a pile in the snow.

Should we chant
if the ambulance pulls the plug and our sky goes dark?

Things are sold to preserve it.


� 2004 by John Eivaz