Postscript
If
I write it's not to forward
anything
in favour of life's advance
when
I speak it's not a record
only
the words dance
dutifully
like Christmas decorations
you
can only hang once
If
I paint it's not a portrait
no
face to put to every shining scar
criss-crossing
the same landscape
wherever
you are
shattering
our memories like mirrors
whatever
they're for
If
I leave it is not for spring
or
spirit afterthought returning to the trees
when
I lie I won't be resting
underneath
the shallow seas
nothing
to explain besides a lifetime
or
whatever that was
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