you. Time stands still,
still as the lady
holding the torch
in New York harbor. Still as
the red and blue pole
outside of the barber.

There’s no getting over
the pain. The color is ****** out
as a bleach stain. Bent as a willow
sweeping the ground. Stuck as
a dog locked in the pound. 

There's no getting over
the past. It passed through
as a high-speed train,
with the windows pushed up
letting in the rain.

There's no getting over
this ****, sitting as a lump
in the throat. There's no jumping
over this moat.