OPEN AN OLD BOOK
I opened an old book
dried flower fell
with endless years pressed against her
so it seemed on that afternoon
It had been red
and I imagined pale hands
pressing her against those pages
filled with poems of hope, of innocence
was it a spring day
when you were shut off from the sun
touch of dew or the gaze of strangers?
who knows!
how did you travel from England
the inscription on the pages says York, England 1925
but he we are under rain
on the West Coast of North America
wet San Francisco
wet with winter
questions could never end
so I put you on my palm
let you feel rain drops once again
filling you, renewing you
closing my eyes
I let you float away in the Bay
float away to some other goodbye.
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