Greenwich

Greenwich

at the place where time begins and ends,
we search for spaces between lines,
watched by sunken-eyed skies,

piteously weeping. these trees
rising, watershed for lives that spill
over damp-dog grounds. what leaves,

green goslings shuddering in a sudden
river breeze; darkling bark that wraps
our insides, chaste with dripful longing.

at hilltop ruin, we crank up archaic
machinery—a sun follower at heart,
a cryptic medieval tunnel tossed

toward the discovery of stars.
at last, us alone through stone-gated
passage where the world is halved,

hung and quartered. we scramble
for direction, such pale, limpid light,
and wait for the enormity of thin,

invisible line to split our hearts.
love, such distances must separate
or kill with long, lingering hope.