a torn history
maps warm drops of
repetitious red ink

I propagate my past
rote and unrepentant
slaving at the turnstile
of this cruel mirrored ball

craving the charm
of a better man
spilling truths
and spitting love
serpenting apples

I halt myself of
dancing at your feet,
deaf to my own music

given this window of refrain
I grow a garden
and feed myself
that which flows from me

hold myself dear
in the light
drink from what
I would desire for you

time travel eludes
but there is this day

and there is the next

© Tom Watters  8/1/09