After the Fact; The Elderly Russian Ends the Dance: A Sarabande

   for Ian, when he’s older


Movies gave us hope.
If others lived like this,
why shouldn’t we?

We have
nobility, but not quite yet.
We have
too much to which we might return.

Images grow old.
Their stories tell themselves
to others now.

We might tell secrets
with what little’s left.
My friend was here.

But not occasion.
The more we can withdraw,
the harder truth is felt.

An image tells itself
its own resolve.

Memory opens windows
that were never there.

Time returns when it is not.
I will look for him,
at least for now,
and hold to that.