Forsythias

I think about time.The forsythiasand the man singingin the car ahead of me.

When I enter the spacethe same shapehe made a momentbefore me,

where is the music,the taste of honeyin his mouth and nowmine, the thought

of kissing his wife good-byeand the words of a songlifting off my tongueas if from memory, but his?

What is mine stays with me,my heart in the glitterof his heart. My dreamshave no bones. Love

is never saved in layersof rock. So much of mewill never be foundon this earth.