Words

The only time around for us The years will accumulate as Leaves in the gutterpipes, The shrubbery, Or along the doorstep. My mailbox will crack. I may well come To accept less and less as Necessary for myself, Believing more and more In the accomodations Of failure. But now — Now there is still voice.

The song I make Is for you, alone. It is soft, warm, Of our lives, Utterly. It is defeated In pose But thrives In the turning of your eye.

Unrecorded. It goes. Human.