We had no dance record –
no undulated score
to offer a vinyl track
to our lost time
of looking back —

The dog lies untouched –
her stroke mislaid
like a forgot chorus
of a heightened itch —

I broke the news
at O-one hundred
with shipping news
and ‘Sailing By’

and your phone died
a battery death
as if
we could recharge

---

E270219

Here – a future lost
like a still fifth child –
her shortened view –
no more beguiled –

as paths by priests
churn to mud –
their robes now scabbed
in soured blood –

All is fouled –
left to burn –
her spin – her shaft
is now slow-worn

The wide street slopes
to rain-washed grey
which I take now –
adante –

the coffee sips
are her warm flesh –
her taste last kissed
of latte breaths

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EDITED 170219