One step down, my back turned against pear groves
As the perfume of orange blossoms drifts
On the breeze, mixed memoirs of when we clove
Tightly to each other. An anchor lifts,
But casually, skirting the floor and primed
To fall in the wake of first resistance,
And I don’t know if its weight is mine
Or yours; I know only these wafting scents.
Facing the desert, I vow not to write
Of our last meal together, nor how you
Strained smiles through glass in the bitter twilight
Of pleasure. Laid before me, passing through
These pools of dust, I glimpse a glint long shent:
A plate of ashes, bleeding, cracked, and bent.
