I tell you these things
that burn between the planks
that have moldered
and hardened for years
but, more often than not,
I don't believe them.
Falling into those minute spaces
I don't believe those rusted promises
that straddle your vocal chords,
settled into the poured slab.
I loved the quake of our bodies.
Today for example,
I scavenged for keys,
while another gentle minor third
slipped into yesterday.
The strings of my hands twinged.
Where are we now,
after your cardboard lullabies
and Cheshire smile?
Children half our age
draped our skin.
They are laughing at us,
They knew we were the last.
In the space between yesterday and today,
cords tumble in the stack-stone hearth.
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