an acre

i found your name, 

left here as a set of marks.

my sandals clapped 

against them, my eyes turned up.

how strange that a world

no longer tilts or grows colder or

ends at the sight of them

they must belong to someone else

now, another young man

quick with a word,

careless with his own heart,

dying to be seen and

told that he is, indeed, enough.

but at seven there is no one

but me, and the locusts,

and the sun peeking from 

behind the library,

not willing to start the day,

this day,

the last one before the new

pairs of us's and them's

inherit this patch of earth,

the straw sheathed in morning

dew.

i wonder, would you be loved

here again, without

the bric-a-brackish admiration of a captive audience,

without emptied cups to make them, without

my moon and my sun to

guide you,

or bring you back

from beyond yourself?

here all is still 

and untouched by grief,

and i am, too,

my world no longer so small

as those three letters.