Barn

I long for the time
I found you in the barn
beside what was left
of that year’s hay.
It rained and howled,
reminding the world
God sheds blood.

Now I am back.
Days and nights and times
between have deserted me.
Only your picture shows me
what I know.

I am old. My words
are issued from a deathbed.
The farm is gone, making room
for a suburb. Stumps measure
every step through dusk.

We have come to place
our hands in darkness,
to pay each other all
we share, to forgive a life
that leaves us when we speak
and teaches us our ruin.

For months I have slept
with rumors of pain. My back
feels like a staircase. My voice
is a makeshift habit that sometimes
tells a friend how your eyes descend
from my memory, how they always
find me young.