By tomorrow, our old world
will breathe memoirs
venting its passion
in the fountain pen splattering
of blue mist.

Tonight, it drifts away
on the scent
of a burnt-out candle,

after sweet words were spoken,
and kisses given
like last rites to a dream.

Now, the wax slowly hardens
relinquishing its warm flesh
to memory posed smooth
as �Odalisque.�

The room�s long shadows droop;
and we know � 

�Love� will soon pass,
deliquesce near dawn
into a flight of birds

washing the past off their wings
pulling light across the river.


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