11-06-2025, 01:38 PM
No Record of Our Passage
No clouds, no streams.
Only the clacking of keys,
the whir of the rotary dial,
a doorbell that couldn't watch you leave.
We’d pedal off into the amber glow
of each fading streetlight, invisible
beyond the reach of gray phone cords,
or the voices of our parents.
No clouds, no streams.
Only the clacking of keys,
the whir of the rotary dial,
a doorbell that couldn't watch you leave.
We’d pedal off into the amber glow
of each fading streetlight, invisible
beyond the reach of gray phone cords,
or the voices of our parents.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson