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Painted walls

smothered days, buried nights

... muffled calls.

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Wearing his shirt

that yester-me

... hope it's what he meant.

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But what of they
who made the hands that laid
... these mossy stones?

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Pleading
such imprints to fast -
this love, this rain and past.

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Soaring chalk palaces
part crusting streets -
spills of passing.

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Frames, some bits of a past -
... the last I saw her
she seemed ...

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Our parents, our children
and we -
the burning meat between.

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