How totally I repaired the sad tracks
scratched into my heart,
nails screeching on the inside ribs.
No more tunneling with dream-lit ironclad excuses.
No seeping, easing, losing track of all those sinking feelings-
the over betting one more time, the losing streak,
the final wishful shuffle.
How easily I recall that blissful epicenter,
the endless summersaulting days,
the starlit nights alive with silence.
How did they sink so finally into the sand?
|Riftstone Arch on the bridle path underneath the 72nd pedestrian entrance into the west side of Central Park|