1 New Poem

Paths That Cross

We started so deliberate, along
the followed page scraps crossed
up with ink, compass-exact
strokes against dying candles,
closing walls, to chart a way
through.

Swiping about,
smearing fingers through
facades and oil print; when
it comes across as knife
edge to throat, it is a
darkening of presence.

We were not burning, blazing
testaments to higher-lived
purpose, not speeding toward
some sitting in light-streaked
field at the quadrangle piece;
only a touch of spark.

Shutting off, zig-zag coiling
electric lamps in antique clutter
that drives us away from
finishing what was started;

Talking into one another’s
straightened lines.