To S.
written by: Gabriella Garofalo
Incidentally, a few miles from loss,
In the shade of a shy, tangled green,
Branches, and roots are the whimsical shadow
Of a grace you dare not ask
For those then missing, now hiding up
In a white, wind-blown land, snow,
Or maybe your story if they never turn on the light,
Nor set it ablaze as you are too sick
Of so green a life-
Who cares, though, if unworthy souls
Upset the green, and even smallish trees
Look great for swanky rooms-
Who cares, though, if the underwood is throbbing
With limbs, cuts, burns, words
While desire is asking you to hand your cider
To heaven only, the rupture where
Shaky poems stop cold and freeze-
Your days, soul, when a lost idiom,
Desire, stays silent to dim words,
And sorry clouds can’t get summer
To silence at dusk lovers lost in their heat,
All tangled in games they can’t get,
The twisted smiles if you ever see a light
Dying to skirt discard, or those brazen seeds
Who beget them all, grass, sky, and wind-
Who cares, though, call them underwood,
A burning thirst, or no man’s land,
If silence is your choice,
If snow, pewter skies, and a mantle of trees
Shirk her wonders-
Can you hear them? They’re after mislaid comets,
Mind, so, don’t ask if they’ll ever get back.
