The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Donald Zirilli

In Memory Boxes

. . . and your fine yellow hair

lilting like a childish song

is finally gone, gone

the handsome brocade

upon your collar.

Your eyes and nose like marbles

roll to corners and the fluttering seductions

of your mouth lie now

utterly still. This is my will,

these are the bric-a-brac I’ve broken,

the such-and-such I roughly tucked away so I could touch