I Don’t Know About Grace

I don’t know about grace, or how to love easily.

I dream of her coming close, and touching my face.

Hesitant fingers, tender and exploring, finding light.

Summer is here forever, no winter now in which to sleep.


Her second hand, semi-reliable scooter, driving to the

edge of town, to that little used book store, as sun fades.

Me holding on tight to her, never doubting I am safe.

There are dark clouds above, but rain never comes.


In dark aisles and dusty books and thick, stale air,

we’ll look for some forgotten thing, some great vision

that will make sense of our hopes or our devouring fears.

October no longer brings the chill of the dead coming back.

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