embers seem so far away
and we don't hear music
until nostalgia skies over
photographs like refuge
from a forgotten day
that never belonged to me.
I stretch down the railroad track,
turning out screws, skateboards, and cocktail shakers.
just the son of a son of a son of the sun of someone,
one ten thousandth of a chance.
does the soul exist in ally
to love and long specifically
for decades belonging to
dreams of ore death.
oh, I don't think so,
and love may be a text
message away
or part of a fire
without sound.