My resolve is weakening
as thin coins passed from hand
to hand, a few too many times.
Slipping away beneath the grate –
pennies no longer bright.

These words are burnished coins,
planted with laughter
lilting through my voice.
Pushed through the drain grate
in your backyard.

Coins dancing against slate stones
creating a tune all their own.

Seven words donated
like fresh blood from my veins.
With a hope of their return – seven-fold.

Inspiration lies on a page,
just beneath this grasp.
In the stars, and almost moments.
But most of all in your eyes,
star-filled in almost moments
not quite on this page.

Nuances whisper your name,
in moments when I am too weak
to fight their reckoning –
as if to remind me that some things
never die, and others are better left buried.

We have grown cold.
Withered hands raised
as skinny antennas
towards an even colder sky.

And it is at times like this,
that I bow my head
and pray for the sun –
to warm this broken back,
to breathe life
into these cracked hands.

For life lies beneath
transparent skin.