John Masella

Farther and Fainter

In solitude, I walk through streaks of gray,
Sharp moonbeams that wrestle with cold street light.
If you’d have come, we would have walked this way,
but half a planet keeps you clear of sight. 

The gaps between our correspondence grow
Like valleys in between tectonic plates,
Where inches slide to miles. Soundless winds blow
Down shadowed alleyways as it gets late.

The siren from an ambulance flicks you
Out of mind for a moment. It softens,
Bending down in pitch as it topples through 
The air, farther, fainter. We spoke often

Not of what would come, but of what was, now - 
How foolish to resist impending ends,
How ignorant to make a fickle vow
To fight against what all nature portends: 

Loss we can’t avoid. Like the siren’s wail, 
Your memory’s diminuendo falls 
Down into fog. You are the ship set sail
At blue dusk, fading out, becoming small.  

John Masella is a poet from New Jersey. His work also appears in The Chained Muse, Verse-Virtual, The HyperTexts, and Westward Quarterly. Influenced by Philip Larkin and similar poets, he leans on accessible language to explore themes of change, loss, impermanence, and aging.