Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Allusive Afterglow





I squint through half-closed eyes
But I cannot retrieve
That Thing that once I loosely prized
and thought would never leave

I inhale; ah, where is
That Thing that I let slip?
And like the Want of almost-kissed
It burns upon my lip

I reach but all I touch
Is ever present Now
The rib cage holds the thund’ring rush
Of That Thing's afterglow

I taste the salt of years
Austere, its season weaves
That Thing that once I blithely cheered
And thought would never leave

© Janet Martin

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