we lose and scramble and
can’t quite catch hold of
anything.

each year was a pillar, was a killer
keeping us close and quiet
teaming with words and sounds
and empty guts.

hearts slip sideways
sometimes. and smile and
want and plead, remembering
holding on as time and life
slide by.

we are no longer, not longing
anymore, not wistful but
distant and almost fondly
noting lines and patterns
in the scramble.