moving the river
The viaduct is not listening.
It simply passes by easily as if it had witnessed nothing.
Not I, it whispers. No lovers’ tales told:
It is your best-friend and ally –
so easy to forget what I know you remember.
Even the wrought iron bench has a memory all its own…
One midsummer’s afternoon two lovers came ….
& etc…
That day, she flipped his hands skyward,
noted the forked love-line, a tributary forming
she of whose love he knew and returned.
When they kissed the spell was cast.
I will love you to the last, the last, the last…
This really happened. The musk tree remembers,
drops it’s first frost fruit as summer ends awfully.
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