Lost In Yours
I lost my hand in yours
and we walked the same old route,
lost my hand like it’s not been lost
before, as we spoke of lake reflections,
old bridges,
car exhaust and work—
as pyres burn ahead of us
leaving scorched roads
in front and then behind,
prelude to eerie coyote calls
we hear when it’s way past curfew,
as Sunday morning dawns again
and we step through
the chipped church doors
as bells toll,
and we smile and look around,
warily,
amazed we haven’t been struck dead,
as the old folk glare
and teach their children,
their eyes always seeing our hands,
as the mass begins and ends,
before I finally pull you close to me
and finish what we started.
