A woman’s hair moves at one-tenth
its former speed, like lace curtains
billowing off a shock of window
on a most uneventful day, the way
you sometimes might see summer rain--
a wave of linens hanging from the sun.
And the older you get, it doesn’t part,
just compresses, as you start to dwell
beneath the shed of moments falling
over you--pile of wet autumn leaves.
Someone finally asks, “Can you ever be
in love again?” But you're at an age
when you must confess, the distance
to this life in love is too far for, “Yes.”
And then you lose your fear of death.

-- Clem


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