Member Poem

I circle this colder corpse, still,
an impulse to remain after blood
dries and wandering hands take
their toll of pocketfuls,
waiting for all silence to stop,
resolve itself to green mystic
waters again and find ourselves
once more growing as cedar-pines
we were in first-limb movement
at that hour when everything struck
as crossing of key-locks, rather than
a clang of misshapen metal.

By now you know it’s some
illusion to believe a twine
bridge could hold all measure
weights in keeping separate
their sorrows, their showings of
feeling where once it was a
blank footlocker sort of thing;
but you never recapture that
with all the mushy cardstock
in a whole city, all the
debonair talking in bookstore
backrooms’ learning,

it just comes naturally.