we’re reaving yesterdays like
leaf-fall & peanutshells, piling
them in great heaps to smoke

and shudder; tonight
i listen to the same sad song
you sung me on those days

you sang for no one, and
the creak of the polished floors
under my uneven footsteps

echoes through all the seasons
between that day and this:
fall, winter, spring,

summer, fall
winter, summer, fall, winter…
the sound of broken

promises is similar
to nothing so much as that
of broken glass, & suddenly

nothing
is so bitter
as chocolate.

suddenly,
there is all this talk
of elephants.