As skin
of my hands and wrists
ages into the topography of crepe paper,
I sadden as I approach the door,
not so much for
what it opens out to,
(what is ahead is settled,
karmic beyond my ken).
Rather,
for what it shuts away,
behind me.
Cool sea.
Warm sand.
My wife in my life.
My hand in her hand.
Words.
Forgiveness.
Bed.
Remembered,
as a lingering kiss was,
when all else is,
forgotten.
Poems by Ken 