Hiraeth
The woods decay and memory decays
and all that’s left are the tokens I have
kept. The letters are all burned, but
there is still the way I say some words
with lilts that tremor and sway
in your vibrato pitch.
I failed to master the art of keeping
you forgotten. I go back to the days
where three steps to my two we walked
as night overshadowed sea
looking through the sand
for colors new and undiscovered.
I build elaborate tombs but none quite
does it justice: so many buildings scrapped,
repaired only to collapse again
that I’ve given up on architecture.
Still I come back at times to fiddle with
designs like a composer who can’t
believe his symphony is finished.
14 Body Electric / Spring 2016