the ghosts of love linger
in
their heavy cloaks.
Here is where Mel and I
pushed a dying car.
Here is where I snapped
photos with Donna.
Here is where I tried to
play the uke with Linda.
Mel, Donna, Linda
—the names are now just
words
and distortions of
something
deeper,
something good;
something
ultimately
doomed.
The failure of the words
to represent the love
like the failure of my
heart to cultivate the love;
it is a heart that’s
tried to throw the sword down
but still meets with the
ghosts
of dead intersections,
each of us cloaked
in our own
heavy
burden.