The Years

The Years

An old cough still sings of its pneumonia.
It asks sometimes for you too.
I remember Fergus by the bridge, where
you called from, and waited, my car
tearing at the horsegravel, the river
silver sharp vinegar.
Memory is mockery in gold and in
my lashes the sun excruciates
the manic river. The dusty fish
fade and live on inside their cold lives.
I should have never come
so close to the shore
to see the shadow come up
from you, and behind me,
let the current wear away
the ice. Nothing is ever fairly
traded and more is lost. I’ve been sick
for weeks and as I slip away,
I begin with the years.

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