lost long

I am full up with half-missing,

half-remissal.

I bow with a load inside of me, and

tremble like a tree

under the clench of all four winds.

Where can I place you,

a memory, to not forget you,

On a wooden shelf amongst

a battery of returning anchors;

to weigh down my oft-heavy heart, and

not to lift my eyes from my oft-whelming plight.

I could find you in a morning of plank-thick night,

but leave you for another

when the air is clear as midnight.