Untitled

Nothing is ash
as the tired, buckling wavelength
that cradles the color

slips into the skin of heaven
all of the motes
of the cloth of a room left untouched.

It might appear as if the curtain
has soldered itself to a sun-ray,
the home half cloud
with no threat of falling;

your presence locked
in the same spot of wallpaper  --
your pace preserved
in the beam of light
that held you,
that still sinks in
from the day

in the way that all things
become points of light
in passing,
the only thing between being
and not being,
a memory.