the small pieces i have kept
kept and fixed my name upon
were the most bright starry things
just under that small hand

that hand so sweetly borrowed
against the flow of things
briefly this it mended
until i wished it no more mine

the ghosts of torn pictures
the strange girl with your smell
return me to small flowers
hand planted in your hair

the always rising spirit of our hand
casts almost a shadow
for some small time this day
and all days will be yours