Faraway it is like mist and smoke
and a boy’s choir. The lad who sinned
runs through a wheat field
trampling golden stalks, out of breath.
He falls naked and looks
into a sea of faces who peer back.
Forgiveness is the course.
If this had been the general sense
of childhood, would not our life be wise?
To what purpose do I roam these walls
pacing and humming fancy melodies
while business bustles this holiday?
It is the end of hurricane season,
the end of detours, and the end of us.
Never a window opened, except now
late into the night when windows
are superfluous because it is dark.
From the grave an echo stabs,
years traveled have no meaning
and confessions occur in the void.
I was pleased and despondent,
woeful and full of glee
when we parted friends.
Today your truth is my oblivion.
(For more by Alice Shapiro’s “Life: Ascending/Descending” go to www.totalrecallpress.com or www.amazon.com.)