Memory Well Met

She tucks her hair behind her ears,

and a ten-year body of softness

pulls at my every memory and muscle. Let this go.

She is timeless as the

line of buildings, as the lake

pounding rocks into pebbles,

a handful of sand thru my fingers,

the lingering sense of sangria

and cigarettes from long ago.

The sun pounds concrete & glass &

the people I pass on the street

seem black n' white,  or maybe

I stopped being sensitive to

hues of mood, substituting

reaction for compassion. Trying to

save it all up for her.

Everywhere I see women,

but none that I would treat better,

for a while, at least.

For the streets change fast like

Chicago seasons,

like weather or not you're

prepared,

the air shifts and is gone.

Long, shadowed halls of the

intangible enveloping waves of steam of days

& the way I wanted things to be.

Traces of transcended flaws

of personality and her afterimage

outlined on the lids of my eyes.

I think about sleep,

and decide to write.