K

We want the mark of time, that streak, wound/gash; the dazzling riddled light held in the loved one's gaze-for a moment, the deep sense of ease at seeing the first step, spring, calendars. The point of intersection, a cross, a turning point, the solstice of the heart. The words not spoken when there was time now recalled, the photograph kept in a deep inner pocket, faith under the left nipple, the worn- down shoes in winter, the clocks in your house all pointing sadly to different hours, the lighting of the fires in the darkness of the morning with darkened hands. The learned skill of forgetting, the amazement that things continue. God in the high, eastern windows, His light reaching us-somehow-marking out time for you, for me.