the last location

was opal & arched its back. 
took a photograph using only my fingers.
we were younger than we should have been
standing on the ledge. memories of trees
flooded our bodies. hush of a strong breeze.
thumbed wine corks in our pockets.
watched as the horizon line turned brittle 
as a bird bone. flightless, the landscape
told a story of thinning. all of us
eating less than we needed. licking our thumbs.
the plate, hovering like a halo. white. round.
shoes falling away one at a time & often
taking the ankles with them. a single ornament
dangling from above. do not touch, 
remembered nothing should be touched from now on.
how did we arrive here? the final of the final.
ends curled up like parchment. there used to be
that field of purple skunk cabbge where
dragonflies rose like angels. dirt carried away
with each exhale. soon the bottom of the barrel.
soon the penultimate glass. a fork in my pocket
for something that won't come. siren stuck
in the air trying to become a fish. 
there had been so much water to float on.
the clouds had drank on their knees.
tell me, if no one is there to remember,
is a location still a location or just a physical?
just a collection? not a collection though
a wordless waiting. un-somewhered by loneliness.
last of our kinds, we filled our pockets with
what was left. kissed beneath us
until all closed into a single stair. 
back up to the attic & no more down. 

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