I’ll wait for this
to dry up and crumble,
that I may hold it in the palm
of my hand and smile and know:
mine is mine is mine
and yours is all your own.

I’ll wait for air and time
to crystallize and glaze over
what was, that I may
place the sculpture over a fireplace
a coffee table, maybe the desk
with the rest
of what art I’ve collected
over the seasons
only you are last, most stubborn
resisting solidification into nothing,
no more –

you still have in you heat to liquify,
so I’ll wait for September
when a love once knew will grow old.