“METHODS MAKE NO MATTER”

Wincing green veins
are backlit, lucidly,
to a golden pink
open palm reception.
The sun has risen
over grape leaves
on a frosted fence.
The purple bruises
of changing seasons
glow bold florescent orange;
the blood of photosynthesis
settled to livor mortis.

To the wearily traveled
sunbeam,
the pores of my skin must seem
catacombs compared to space,
time, and atmosphere.
Soon, morning dew. Now,
frozen white freckles of
icy indifference!
The same forecast we knew,
together, little sister in Seattle.

The method makes no matter
except in the moment
that would have
mattered
if you'd remained in it!

Whether I write
in ink or pixels.
Whether I paint
in mud or aluminium.
Whether you, darling dew,
swallowed
pills or pulled a trigger.
The method never matters,
so long as you thaw
by the time I gain your courage
to walk bare foot across my lawn;
to pluck the soft blushing pear
and kiss
the sorrowful sweetness of summer
goodbye.

I know, now, solitude
is my world without you in it.
We spoke, once, of loneliness,
together. Now, I alone, live it.
I, who once was
young. You,
who once was
flesh and blood;
bone and Black.

I miss you. I wish
we'd had that
next conversation.

narrative poem written on 10-25-2013 by: on mattkane.com
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