J. G. X. Borrege

El Cerrito, California

Agnes Dead These Many Memories

Draw back the curtain of indifference
And stare
At all her ageless temple where gravestones life.
(Oh look!
Above a butterfly in wind
Flutters like a trembling hand
Writing a last will.
The flowers petals tear and scribble on the fast breeze.
Moonlight on stones glows like a cup of tears.)
Oh tell me
Why Agnes died,
And who grew aghast
At her sightless eyes.

A time she passed my way
Again and again,
And left no imprint on the solid land,
On rose, on the dancing daffodil.

Oh, ghost or seraphim
Of this garden place,
Let my thoughts be your thoughts;

And open the door, and let her out--
Her still drop of Life,
the air she breathed,
The images that fled her timeless eyes.
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