you may have turned into
that junction of light
my hands will be lined
like a map of Antigua
our poems won’t mean
anything anymore
time will come to stand
on bridges; eyes towards
that last utter coast.
Some unsuspecting man will buy
your shoes in Oxfam, stand on
indents your feet dictate
perhaps I will find you still
yet love others the same until
our poems won’t mean
any less.
