ruins can be new. we stand
in streams of radiance
and open wonder through
the still unfinished 
roof; nothing is still.
we talk

        of anything we can
to dull the roar of what's
unsaid; and memories, 
like emerald marbles, knock
into the sideways glances
and the contiguities
of each approach

                 of almost
broached - and mostly thought -
and danced around like dust
motes in the sunlight on

the sturdy beams of our

       forgotten



                   promises