By Will Cordeiro
Our quiet walk ends at this rural park
as sun-shot falls across the edge-lit peaks.
We read into each other’s faces: sky
below blue intervals of dragonflies
where water’s drift erases half its page,
which wrinkles lines, baffling our image. . .
A shadow’s path recovers forty years,
and, sweetened by estrangement, it appears
your youth’s arrested, but only for a
spell—our living stops as treetops aura.
We separate into our proper skins,
for now (each now) oblivion begins.
At last our limbs find rest inside a passage
where grass accepts our weathered damages.
Will Cordeiro is completing his PhD in English at Cornell University. His recent work appears or is forthcoming in burntdistrict, Cortland Review, Crab Orchard Review, CutBank online, Drunken Boat, Phoebe, and elsewhere. He lives in Tucson, Arizona