Missed Connections from the City of San Francisco
I remember love.
Rare was the gift of eyes to share audacity!
Nights not every light was a dead star
we swam waters dangerous wine-dark and jewel-fingered;
held to the heart’s possibilities,
we sang boldly under the choir of numbered suns,
hungered as a statue’s widow hungers.
But always autumn devours the perfumed hours of the summer,
and now I am the sum of my secrets,
treasured scenes from a spring of senses.
Winter is the attic of grief.
Love is a memory.
Over time this blog has featured a few pieces of found writing from sx. This one appears to be the last (at least that’s what my RSS Reader claims) so I wonder if our Golden Gate Poet has moved on to other places or other faces… One of the tags on Fireflies from DS says the image is a reflection of a reflection of a reflection and with each iteration the colors darken and fade. I think it’s like forgotting to remember to forget to forget…