Jill Moser

A long love means the first part

is old, though still attached.

Some of it's forgotten,

or disagreed upon—

seams and glue, not cracks.

If death steals half the love,

the rest does not wither

or collapse. Its memorial candles

go on flickering in the dark,

secret stars above a place

where sky and sea

come close to one another

but do not touch.

Whatever wounds there were

are hidden now, barely a trickle

of old blood disguised as rust.