That Place We Used To Go

Those fond memories and lost loves of times bygone and distant, faded moments on precipices of the mind, inlaid within the soul - boat times and all times not meant to be forgotten, nor taken back, but made into fire and cooled into stone - the even fonder foundations of great poetry. Great to someone.

Beyond the Northwoods Waterfall I met Delilah
wearing a boy's tuxedo vest and

smoking a homegrown cigarette that smelled of Northern California.

She screamed and came and went

and I begged her to slow down because

I wanted to taste her peace,

that part of her you couldn't see.

The splash of the falls followed us home like a lost puppy

and we remained wet from there on after.

I was a shipwreck and she was a hurricane,

the damage had already been done,

her winds of fortunate destruction couldn't

topple what had already fallen,

but there was still a very real danger of drowning.

So I danced politely in her presence on

the ashes that fell from her lips,

the aftermath of something that resembled volcanic love,

that reminded me of rooms empty without her,

only a suede vest,

the memory of a full suit, a school dance,

before the Northwoods Waterfall dried up.

4.23.05