The Art of Repition
The house settles over the summer,
as if to tease autumn into submission;
we fall into silence under a summer moon.
Your picture remains on the door
of the fridge — too much fragility for a
place on the mantel.
But we feed the elephant; you laugh
from your post on the door just above
the handle; I go with the fallout,
wiping the stains left behind.
Chipped beyond repair, good hearts
turn to rust. I catch a glimpse of your eyes
as you pull your sleeve over the freshest
of tracks; shame under a summer moon.
It must have been the hardest thing —
to know such secrets, and yet keep them
fully intact; shoved underground with
bones and ashes of the ones who
did the heavy lifting in years prior
to the blur of denial. Now, as time
closes the door on opportunity,
you smash your head into every
wall designed to keep out persistent
spectators. Nobody can take that away —
the blatant disregard for facts laid bare
under the brightest sun, as each day
struggles to free itself from the strongest
of rays — as if too much heat can only
bring fire to this wasteland of dusty roads
in the rear–view mirror — long before
you have the chance to pull over
and ask for directions