February, 1986
for Mary
Twenty-five years
spilling ink
and there are no words.
None.
Or the wrong words.
They would be angry,
these words,
and blind fury
is no substitute
for a smile
borrowed from Da Vinci,
now stolen.
Insurgent strangers
in an empty room,
one slender smile
the only balm.
Another millennium.
Amid the quiet clutter
the numbers subtract
to goodbye.
The only words, then:
Thank you.
— grant alden
