.
saturday stretched
across decades, snapping in
around memories
better left dormant,
one hour as long as
the drawn gun lifting
to point, the sigh and quickly
missed lunge.
some thoughts own
every space left
between seconds, claiming a self
well lost, inviting
redemptive desire –
that impossible movement
of forgiveness, yet
never granting that
which be so desperately
needed.
.
what a day –
drinking tea at the
table, windblown snow rising
outside the glass.