HOW IT WAS OR WASN'T

Women like crushed petals in your leather-bound history. 
Midday light like the dresses they wore 
then shed when dusk and your hands came down.   
*
Once, a woman whose eyes even in repose exacted a toll.  
And long letters, lusty imitations of love, drives
in the country, moon-blanched and heat-revved petting.
Leaves overhead suggestive of infinite un-joined hands 
though applause was clearly in order.  
*
And every once in a while discrepancies or fallacies 
in your recollections, bewilderments 
where you seemed to say and believe
selfless things, do them, and were beloved. 

              ---Originally appeared in Flint Hills Review