Hour Twenty

Listen to the song Your Hand in Mine by Explosions in the Sky, and write during it. If the song is up before your poem is finished, play it again. It is a good song to write to in part because it has no lyrics.
Trekking through the snow and lights of
December’s magic hours— my heart turns
to look into the air, where glittering blackness
resides and time stops, that’s where I meant to be.
Parting words: Remember me as a time of day.
Remember me as a song for our fathers.
And when it’s time to great death,
lie in a bed, made of Yasmin the light.
Close your eyes and watch; the moon is down.
Have you passed through this night? In
through a poor man’s memory, lying still
with tired eyes, tired minds, and tired souls,
We slept

Resurrected, that first breath after coma,
finally, the only moment we were alone. I
would have lived there forever, but we only
had six days at the bottom of the ocean. So
for you these words are a memorial of your
hand in mine.


The last known surrounding of our love
could only be measured in human qualities.
We held weights and measures with trembling
hands—telling our monkey minds: be comfortable,
creature. And slipping away we’ll recover that
postcard from 1952. Please let me back into
that golden age of ignorance.

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