The Lark
Published in

The Lark

Waiting for November

Photo by Aaron Gilmore on Unsplash

His headstone verses were writ in wine
To draw the eyes unto the fact of death.
Lichen lines love-and-only-love remembers.
All, all, we knew was eyes of deepest blue
This good man’s eyes writ in blood
Mortal love will always end like this. Time
Weathers the stonemason’s art to a flat palimpsest
Of hieroglyphics which resemble not the zest
Of pumping blood. Stones do not record the passing
Shadows of a glance, a look. Kisses that we all desire…

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