|
|
|
|
A goodbye lunges at me; I fight its heavy knowledge of when everything was unripe. Outside the door some saint takes half the winter to gnostically slide into my journey. The shadows – their wrong sides staining my sleep – break from too much stress. The ocean is three-quarters elemental, one-quarter a perfect destiny, too deep for chance. Reassembled from the secrets of winter, my poetry and dreams elude the remaining rain. Assuming friendship will survive ingratitude as the trembling days accumulate, I turn the skies only to know, later, the revolutions have failed. My heart grows less as I wait for summer. The superfluous war between the angels seems a long way away this sweet Mediterranean noon. I’m drunk on sun and sparkling water, pomegranate leaves and a thousand statues. The certain sea is mine, the speech of the tides gives back everything. I do not realise the Atlantic is waiting and there once was seawater near the shores of the moon. Home is unaccountably quiet. Six steps from my front door a saint’s patient, slow graces are reflected in the wisdom of other words. My unbelief might somehow catch birds, but never stars. Move your soul so that shadows can enter the dark and die. |
 |  |
|
|
|