a radio toothache, hours were not sailboats
mind spinning, trying to brush something off
July got caught under a rudder of ghosts
hours were not parachutes or goalposts lost
we gave them a chance to land on the cross
for a song to mark us then and mark us now
a stain in your cheek with all the old gloss
to one thing we constantly took on the brow
as gentlemen of the road always allow
on mint occasions, a sonnet echo
for a song to Marcus then and Marcus now
enameled moments stole a page although
I’d find the past written all over your face
no bookmark needed, I’d remember the place

Copyright © 2015 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·