It is an evening in midsummer
near the end of our marriage
and the last of daylight has paused
behind a stand of cedars.
We have come to that point where words
are useless. They would only slip
from our lips, flutter in the air,
land like false snow
in parched drifts. And if one got caught,
say, on your lashes, a word
like never or remember,
then I might forget the ravine
at the edge of the yard
or recall your hand low on my back, the force
in counterpoint to your whisper, to and fro.
I might reach to brush it, that quivering word,
and you might catch my hand
and bring it to your lips.
But the sun slips in silence,
the night rises, a predictable flood.
I watch your silhouette
as you step into the rift
without a sound.

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