August Sixth
There is a cloud
that shines a color alien to clouds,
and nights are darker than they were.
Blood I have shed
is powder on my memory.
I break on these immortal, broken stones,
and terror's dying haunts my metaphors.
Everybody I have known
is one man waiting on a half-imagined corner
for an unfamiliar face that he has loved.
The color of that cloud is named Goodbye,
for it is raining, shadows, everywhere.
The days have grown as delicate as bones.
The loneliest god in the universe
is walking, and his every word
is possibly goodbye on busy corners.
