for the record

The photograph of you
with my mother,
both deliciously happy-
 or appearing
so
(your lips are sealed) makes me
wonder,
how now, I have only this.

Much is missing
from this picture gallery,
laid out in
     mind,
           despite the illustrations,
and elaborations,
and still,
                                            nestled
away
in a heart ache
is that pearl like
motif-
embalmed,
for grave.

So, when last night, I
didn't bother with a bath,
it came as no surprise this morning,
                      that I
         should happen on such delicious
symbol of the way I (used to?)
                                       do
things.
                         If it's
current,
it's not old.
Why do I
forget?
        The insanity is
                     alive
                     and well.  Conjoined, I
map back to determinant,
    puncture
                each season,
dry and wet
                   alike,
producing
what I
                       know I need to put
away.

I am mopping
up remains of conversation,
finding I am fonder of the fantasy
                                    than
                                    this mess
                                       inherent
to how things are,
                      and
       at present,
       am only making up
for life I've lost.
                            I have paid for
this in pain.
Overused the common,
and denied
the
truth.
I have violated voice.

So, now, I'm waiting,
         weary,
for the way of wound
                         to meet me,
                         through
                         the ruin
and the
                              rain,
                               astonished
                                               still,
by the circle
      that brings me back to
  you.