Soft Afternoons

It’s that glimmer of hope
that gets caught in my throat
when I see your words
or hear your name.
Something that could have spilt
from your very lips
was caught on a breeze
that drifted past my ear
one soft afternoon.

Shadows playing on a baby’s face –
you probably could have painted
something more unique than
that shit, but I just thought
of you and didn’t care,
not even of the crying or noises
at the park,
one soft afternoon.

The grass blades on my hand,
made me think of every time
we experienced our senses
at a greater height
to have them
fall
.     fall
.             fall from a greater
height, than sheep have known,
even on a soft afternoon.

Clouds in the sky, in my room, in your eyes
in our throats, in your hair, in my nose;
coughing, seeing, laughing, loving,
holding, blowing, thinking, knowing,
and questioning all that we
thought was wrong,
on a soft afternoon.

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