Crucified Historian of the 25th Century


the typewriters grooves
clutched and then buckling
under fingerprints. i held
you once, saw your face.
the hands fervent to paint
your face again, the legs
over the blanket we sat under
the stars, the chicken and
grease a mess on the grass.
who knew time would tell?
the passage under the borrow
never ending. the taste in
the tooth’s hiding place
still can be tasted. when you
laughed it was the portal
that opened. never ending
spells of memory swirling
blue and black to that night.
that spring day when it fell
apart. the olive trees and
scraped knees. all i’ve ever
held onto and now waiting
to reappear. the typewriter.
any second to time travel,
your face a sun on the horizon.
at the table you laughed,
caught the glint of my hope,
a gem amidst black urchins
crusted on the bank’s edge.
the bellow never ends, ripples
of your love snapped in old
polaroids and penniless
adventures. how did we know
the books would forget all these?

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