Photographer Ilse Bing — Poster, Henry VIII, 1934

Needle & Thread
The Glue That Binds Us

Charred sentiment dispensed
The remains of our days,
Spent: cleaved away
As leaves torn of paper.

Distant memories engaged
The feeble free fall
End over end;
Tumbled as pigeons
Latched together
With arms open.
We headed towards
Eliot’s perpetual April;
Never gave thought
To the tire of love.
Youth’s newness: blind elation
Staved off the wolves of reality.
Salt of the earth
Took leave, our loss;
We pushed the pieces forward.

Soiled uniforms
Dressed in suits of grace,
Cumbersome and too large,
We traced our paths
Again and again;
With dogged determination
We dragged ourselves
Through foot worn ruts.
In the end, we realized
There would be no phoenix
To rise from the ash.