99. he died

.

saturday stretched across decades, snapping in

around memories better left dormant,

one hour as long as the drawn gun lifting

to point, the sigh and quickly

missed lunge. 

some thoughts own every space left

between seconds, claiming a self

well lost, inviting

redemptive desire –

that impossible movement

of forgiveness, yet 

never granting that which be so

desperately

needed. 

.

​​what a day –

drinking tea at the 

table, windblown snow rising

outside the glass.