Clover
She’s waiting outside
in a clover cloud,
permed hair,
mother of pearl woven into a dress,
barefooted and aware
that I’m ready to follow her anywhere.
From a piano bar in Manhattan
to a spot in Covent Gardens
where a sax plays Take Five,
where it’s too dark to notice my wounds,
and healing scenes
are all I have left
to prove I’m still alive.
She speaks of Burton,
Lady Jane and Robert Moss;
a common love,
and a common loss.
A bond with a city now dancing on air.
Sweating helium,
thirsty for a flame.
Everything beautiful
begins with goodbye.
Her hand traces my scars
as we watch Damascus fall out of the sky.