Down Libraries

Late November's light
set against a sunshine scrim.
how many years
has it been?
Your heart
stared at Medusa's face,
(her snakes
are paper thin.)
your literate desires
burn down libraries
in the storm of words
you exchange in sleep.
the machine starts up again
when we reach the sea
would have liked
more than one
who recognized
we're on empty,
the lone arm
waving a white flag
in the driving snow.
done with Civil wars
disheveled lives and loves
mistrusted trysts
and added risks,
funeral plans
typewritten sans
parenthesis stands
wrapped around
future plans
it all blows away
they turn blue
and hollow faces
replaces aces
in a once winning hand.