The Spiral

Streets run a river
in the summer as it rains,
drain down the debris of time.
Some may wish for it
to carry away their pain;
I’d just as soon it’d taken mine.

Thunder awakens
the city from the heat,
sedated days, humid haze, and solid sun.
Somnabulents startled
swiftly from their sleep,
somber steps to splashing run.

She entered the spiral,
stepped into the dark
framed by the waning crescent,
a luminous ark,
in which she’d sail the heavens,
search for the missing part;
some missing part of her soul.

Here at the window
drops splatter through the screen,
wet my face, swell memory’s stream.
Soaked in the image
of the storm I’d overseen:
a foundr’ing, drowning dream.

Together at this window
we’d watched the moon rise.
Her heart treaded tormented tears.
There in the water
I reached for her cries.
Then I felt her disappear.

She entered the spiral,
stepped into the dark
framed by the waning crescent,
a luminous ark,
in which she’d sail the heavens,
search for the missing part
(I wish I was the missing part.)
of her soul.

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