after Dylan Thomas
The bed sheets are white hard
as we sit on them in a last moment.
We had three lyrical years,
between ‘I thee wed’ and ‘nameless dread.’
Like Kierkegaard, Love left
wandering on a trembling journey
with its heart beating fainter,
until it stopped at our cottage door.
We stood too long in the snow
not rolling together into one ball.
Instead, each of us our own sculpture,
turned to ice, carved by time.
Mike Lewis-Beck writes from Iowa City. He has pieces in American Journal of Poetry, Alexandria Quarterly, Apalachee Review, Aromatica Poetica, Big Windows Review, Birdseed, Blue Collar Review, Columba, Cortland Review, Chariton Review, Eastern Iowa Review,Ekphrastic Review, Frogmore Papers, Guesthouse, Heavy Feather Review, I-70 Review, Inquisitive Eater, Pennine Platform, Pilgrimage, Seminary Ridge Review, Southword, the tiny journal and Wapsipinicon Almanac, among other venues. He has two books of poems, Rural Routes, and Shorter and Sweeter, each published by Alexandria Quarterly Press.