Seeds of thought glistening on the back of a whispering • river which had caught the germ of my idea, your • tongue was an inspiration then and is a monument in • my memory now, a dead language from which you will • hear nothing against us, not a sound but the bubbling-up • of nostalgic sentiment, a spring trusting in the chance we • •
might meet its flood in another life, waste yet more • days among the limerent, tasting of each ending rendered again • in flavourful symbols flashing inundations of fragrant visuals spilling mouthfuls, • hinting at some unspoken vastness waiting for us, some distant • significance whose influence is a pool of dew lingering in • that sweating valley after our season of storms blew into • •
two one soul, white clouds shattering with gasping wind, aching • with panting breath, antagonizing with ecstasy’s agony, a shell under • fragments of which we gathered, as if we were sheltered • from the surge of its force, protected by the ferocity • of our wills, to collect from the dustbin of the • Universe whatever lust left of love for us to mourn • •
over, our future scattered into the earth’s bowels, the remnants • of a single cell split into thousands of fingernails swimming • under skin, planting, if not well, then plentiful, the trembling • descendants of our singular romance all-but-extinguished by the stinging chill • of lightning’s quivering fall, its ashes exasperated at having to • rise from a season in hell, chthonic faces ill-prepared, if • •
at all, even painted, to brace themselves for their katabasis, • raging and racing across ages, filling pages, blameless tears travel • ever since to tell what no survivor will, that, in • both body and psyche, I have felt, and feel still, • your energy pulse through me, its enemy truth undoing every • illusion as if it were a button, conquering every sinew’s • •
disingenuous movement with silent poetry calming slowly any doubts my • mouth might encounter, thinking, as it does, for me, always, • fearful of the possibility that, with another, I will never • come so hard as we did then, inside each other, • during that ancient summer spent together abroad as master and • disciple, nature’s unkindness rendering us both irascible students of weather.