for Jenn

Midnight begs for reflections
of ghost faces, echoing
the trailings of
their dusty voices,
resounding
their everlasting lines.

Panning for gold
in a pool of pictures bent at all edges
(curved under the weight of time’s
amnesia), I found him in a field,
amazed at the butterfly
who could drink a dandelion’s heart.

I know time abuses us.

And I know we will all be kept in a box someday,
remembered for our brightest days.