At Annabichl gardens,
Stone angels knelt over small boxwoods
Without forgiveness.
At your final hour,
I sat on a curb in Waco Texas discussing German poets.
I did not notice all the surrounding shadows
Or luminous choirs of finished light flooding the empty street.
Clouds covered a suicide of luminal stars,
Where words for the beloved became too faint to hear.
A rustling light to the east was only a false lead.
A depressant of night
Completed a sequence beyond our ability to return.
At the vesper bell,
There were hospitals
And distance whispers of fountains from Giardino delle Cascate –
It was a life’s short decay in unfinished history.
Stone angles knelt over small boxwoods.
To be loved is rare,
But is of no lasting significance.
I know we are not near,
And cannot hear your voice.