Morning after songs
Por qué una negra noche se acumula en la boca?
- Pablo Neruda
Your muddy shoe-prints,
dried now,
look like fossils:
grim grandfathers
of unlikely fish.
(You’re gone though
and I’m left
with memory and ghost.)
The two door gate still creaks
like the badly oiled wings
of pterodactylae,
with a touch of dying forest
and a rain of warm, dead rust.
(You’re gone though
and I’m left
with intervening shadows.)