Baby's Fat Hat

Once in a mad
while I see the
tip of my gal's
hat, like a steamer
pulling out into
the sea, heading
to that other
shore, marked
like neon's
outline of
where to be,
a disciple
in the distant
perfection,

ever it grows more
likely that her hat
will no longer
fit her, as she
becomes a
further
darkness. Once
in a while
we still converse,
as if in being
left behind, I
had finally
found a few words.

I talk to a sha-
dow huddled as
memory. She'd
thought she'd
thrown it off, the
deep hell in
shade cast
on her eye. She's
moved on, that's
all. There's no
difference now
betwen what's
past, and that is
yet remaining,
in the ruins
beyond the wall.