Memories of My Friends
by James Croal Jackson
I.
memories tips
of dry paintbrushes
scraping canvas
saturated with constellations,
faint shapes remembered,
bone smiles, glazed eyes,
span of sunlight, eight
long minutes away
II.
a chewed-out lighter
flickers in my hand.
tiny fragments of a broken
windshield from a wayward
stone compile into diamond
dust, a fractional mountaintop
glistening at dusk
III.
we dug all of the glimmer out of dirt,
filled paper bags with crystals.
there was no laughter,
there was no silence.
everything happens now
and never again
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