In dreams, I’m still decoding

the jagged ending, chipped and sharp.

In so small a room that hope is

the spectral hand of could have been

breaks every tiny bone of was.

Escaping you, my bully,

I am buttoned for my future with gold coins

and carry secrets seamed in my old coat

but I must travel circumspect.

I must remember always

there is ice 

beneath September’s green.

Yes, let the words between us come

like friendly neighbors

but know:

our poem is a box of silence.