![](https://photocaptionist.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/10841142_10154928712665576_1046832710_n1.jpg)
In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.
Sean Mark, 2014
![](https://photocaptionist.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/10863593_10154928713210576_1250664235_n.jpg)
In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.
Sean Mark, 2014
![](https://photocaptionist.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/10850622_10154928713130576_2141541847_n.jpg)
In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.
Sean Mark, 2014
![](https://photocaptionist.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/10867175_10154928713180576_1384712466_n-2.jpg)
In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.
Sean Mark, 2014
![](https://photocaptionist.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/10850480_10154928712860576_829855489_n.jpg)
In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.
Sean Mark, 2014