little blue flowers

too late :: a finite love

we've made ourselves into
squabbling pigeons

fighting over old tea leaves
and broken glass

cobblestone fears line up
in neat rows beneath us

when it gets like this
i take your hand in mine,

whisper in your ear how much
i enjoy the songbird in your voice,

and lick up our troubles
to keep away in the tasteless dark

but now . . .

you're fierce and strong-willed
and these hours slide by too easily

your beautiful voice carries on
through the cobalt stages of death

and i cannot reach for you,
my love

i . . .
i cannot reach you.