Dreaming;

Standing
on the wet
concrete
in the darkness
that is day
faded
past the twilight hour -
smoking,
eyes closed,
old Frank
slipping through the night
singing
of "The Real McCoy"
and the sky,
bleeding its thought
from cloud through tree
and down, down
to the ground
where he hides -

He might
almost
believe.

Believe
she never died.
Believe
the pain, the doubt,
an illusion.
Believe
you never
left.

On a warm spring night
on the western edge
he might
almost
believe.

And then Bones's toes
feel
cold rain
splashing
off concrete steps, knees
afire with barometric
sensitivity
and Frank
becomes
the old chanting that never
ends -
and Bones?
He cannot
believe.

_{(To Belief :: 04-26-2010)}