I’ve been holding my breath all these years.
A radiant face floated from the fogged mirror,
frigid in the frozen floe of Clifton Gorge,
drugged by a succession of freeze-and-thaw fronts.
Long-term were the sunbeams in corners of photos.
Their aching has aged me. Now I’m washed out
as salted asphalt, location undulating beneath me
collective memory’s ponderous presence in every step
of the walking tour of the past three years-
a dotted line, footprints painted on the pavement,
Those leaden, dreadful lessons, and their aftermath
A sweet saudade, a simple solace
where once was grass and bashful sun.