Snow falling,
a frozen benediction,
as old photographs
stare up at me
Your polished glass eyes
glitter
blue and
alive,
transfiguring
shrouded memories
that
(for a parenthesis in eternity)
kaleidoscoped across my mind
Funny how much things matter
in the alive, tropical heat
like that faint blue pulse
that beat at your slender wrists
and that mouth
you painted fat and crimson
and those blue veins
that wormed their way across your breasts
Now,
as the sepulcher
surrenders to the
falling shroud of snow,
I just have to wonder
if those cold, closed
eyes
are still blue
and
does that pale blue pulse
still beat
beyond my current vision?
In the next universe?
the next dimension?
some dirt-floored hovel in Bangladesh?
Only in my fractious mind?
© Chris Helvey
