"......No longer the core of each other’s waking (or sleeping) hours." ~ from here

... and so the days are given to a travelogue of insignificances - that they were born, that they lived in that house once, loved and were on occasion loved back - none of this a cause for a tragedy - barely a squeak under the great whirling wheel of time (or as revolutionaries would have it, Historical Imperative) - yet

how would it be, if the arts of memory were denied to them? And they couldn't mourn those faces that must have changed, or all those completely forgotten? Or even worse stay up late in the nights, not able to hear loved voices, in the far distance, singing softly, what appear to be dirges or lullabies?

Cottonwoods send white gowned emissaries to the grass - where I try To overhear the word that passes Between the nodding stalks of berries And the wind - now embroidered by The flight of skylarks, and dragonflies

As I let go of Adrienne's hand On that foreign veranda - As foreign as she claimed I was to her, and as foreign As that once native ground Had become. So a foreign Dusk took me in, by the hand.

And in that hand left a hunk Of dark bread. I gnaw and Gnaw on it, with a hunger (which doesn't seem to abate) For that evening I last tasted Stardust from Adrienne's mouth - Before dusk took me in, Before darkness fell.