can all these years
really be recounted
in so few pages?





it used to be
that pages and pages
of you and me
and of her and I
and open porch thunderstorms
would recount the days and weeks

what has gone missing

so few pages
so few desires
so few loves
so few sublime moments
so few awakenings
so few anonymous you's
so few developments to me

only regressions

(is someone so few
someone at all)

very nice