The Forgotten

Mist. Autumn. (1899) – Isaac Levitan

Stepping here
your eyes may walk away.
Your skin may blend into sky.
But parts of you will always be
here, fog clinging to color:
the soft memory of leaves
before childhood slinked away.

Some memory moves,
over there, less apparent
than shadow, in the mouth
of fog. A squirming smudge
nearing anger, but it is
already fading. Time
to walk away
from the parts that remain.


No sun
just my empty shoes,
a shadow dangling
against the sky
beating black.
And my feet harmonious
with the oily street
while the stars seem
to step from me
and the lights look away–
your windows.
But I am a part of this,
my dirty feet are
a part of me
and a part of you.

Posted a shortened version of this on Twitter.