With a mutual penchant for
old timey markets, film noir,
and posthumous tributes to very
dead poets, we’d connected.

Imbibing on moonshine, divinity and
your blue tambourine, we made art in
an all night rococo, rounding the clock.

Then we simultaneously parted, for
reasons, unknown.

The canvas, part empty, mid a quandary
of questioning, brushstrokes and sudden
erasures.

Our poems on the nightstand, glimpse
an etch-a-sketch theater, of our “once
was the time.”