Your ornamental trim is struck down.
Your decorative trim, your ornamental gilded
absence a pile in the snow. The course was
a strong senseless sun lost.

When you walk down the stairs,
those crusty mornings of a decorative past
tumble; minds when breath cannot stand
run a course, not yours usually theirs,
but not always. But she...

When the ambulance arrives the woman in
our sky goes dark and paramedics question
immaculate moments. The sun's lost black hair
is no longer gilt. Swinging loose it was your buddy,
him with a lady your own, your buddy
with a girl, her mouth yielding the senseless chant
loss is our life. Your buddy pulls the plug and
so she swings again.

From hair black as loss,
twice as beautiful a torrid shine. Mind
(not your breath) is waiting, swinging.
Things all things meet sold to preserve it.
Sooner or later You are the ambulance.
But neither loves your decorative trim.
Should we if you are there?


� 2004 by John Eivaz