Hallmarks

Where do they go?
Soaked in grief,

I walked to the valleys
On a road with two.

Hallmarks, a white van,
A lost dog still howling

While as dead as the moon;
There is no end, no, not soon.

For years, insomnia grew
As empathy clotted

In violets and blues.
An empty bed, a job or two.

Some returned later,
Much more as survivors,

Adults and artists,
But all were haunted

By what men might
And some indeed do.

Bonsai

Memories shrink in my wash,
So the leaves, once verdant,

Become delicate and almost
Imperceptible, sometimes lost,

Yet nonetheless loved,
Nurtured and now as fresh

As when you placed my hands
On your hips and your obi

Slipped – I can’t remember
The music but I do remember

Your kiss, fleeting,
From where I fall recurringly.

These thoughts are the size
Of bonsai, ornamental,

Propagated, wired
To my wabi-sabi sense;

I walk through the forest
Of their sorrows then,

Counting steps to my death,
Diminutive, less than I was

Back then, when your kiss
Felt like bliss briefly lent.