They leave without turning the moon of longing off behind them,
without shutting the door overlooking the dew of the steps they’d taken,
they don’t drink water to know how to return to water, they head
towards an evening leaning its face against the hand of absence, lucid
about the business of leaving, and overcome by tears. They are
statues of flesh and blood, frowning, smiling . . . however we want to see
them. They tear their dreams down, put ours on, and sneak away, 
leaving heaps of seed on the traps of memory, for the birds of
our nagging wish to blame, not looking behind, they sneak away
from a time and take shade in another, where no eyes smile or cry.

                                                                                                            November 2023