Prom
you come from the sky
absolutely crazy
a nervous gait
not stumbling
in your tattered cloud
gown the prom
messed up.
Your hair wiry
with all the stars
freed from
the constellation
about your head,
you would caution
me of mistakes
and hand me wisdom
like a bouquet
of cultivated flowers,
no roadside buy.
You look about to cry
then exclaim,
"There’s no memory
of music,
no sound the same
as a human heart."
Then silence grips
your soft lips
not a breath comes after
nor can I find laughter
for your constellated grief
forever streaming
in a null night;
near dead myself
bones weighing down
feet on the ground
I can't respond
but take your hand;
with nothing planned
nor to understand,
our feelings dance
in the palms of our hands.
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