Slow

Slow is the old man come cane-walking by

as his memories parade softly behind

the penetrating gaze of certain, blue

eyes.

Slow is the dripping of the cast-brass tap

as its thread wears away under pressure

of time, water, and the caress of

hands.

Slow is the fading of blue from his shirt

as it wanes with the growth of moss on bricks

made into walls, for having and holding

her.

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