in my inkblot notebook

I can see you just as I am,

kept by you as

your own

imagined filigree,

some number of pages deep beneath

a foreign greeting:

how long will we remember

how we could not bare to see

the rising rust redact our

desperate attempts at

alchemy?

a reign of gilded silence lost

to a hum of railroad steal

but had I drawn you

out from the paper,

I could know Even for a moment

that ephemeral conviction

of purpose

an instant of communion

in otherwise

parallel

lives