lonesome blood doesn't move

lonesome doesn't move, it clings to time-tapered tree limbs, to grey sidewalks refreshed with a white snow, and to the blood red brick walls overlooking them, but not overlooking what went past, no, not overlooking what passed as a life, a life that went speeding past them, with no quiet moments to take a breath or to sit within them;

the past didn't go the way she wanted it, the way we'll see it, not the way the blood red brick walls wanted to feel it,

but the bricks hold it, with tree limbs, with walks, and they hold her, and they offer her, still lonesome, Hattie, stilled by blood, here to me,

and she comes to me, no, not her, but the thought of her still blood, and when I take her, or the thought of her, I take it away, a little of our lonesomeness, the blood