suffering from dimentia
he holds the door open, letting in some light
into the folds of her dress
lying in a pile on the walnut veneer flooring
he put down when he was lucid
crows remind us that somehow everything ends in dust
compounded by relentless self doubt
feverishly complicating an already darwinian situation
she is looking at him in wonder
who is this man at the door
inside the casing are questions and answers
fit within a decaying artifact to organic development
yearning for an artificial embellishment
to hold fast the past memories
close the door it is getting cold..........
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