The kind of moon
that
grows sharp over time
As it glows in far-away caves
where
the water can be heard
Like the breathing of the lover
in your bed.
It was richer, we thought,
for
the darkest of wine
and blackest of chocolate,
the thickest of wrapped animal fats,
But any words said were deflections
But any words said were deflections
because
there was nothing we could say
And are written like the last recovered hieroglyph
from
the first recorded melody in stone.
Gestures that are frozen,
of
hands and mouths and loins,
Go on in a loop of never-
appeased desire.
The lanterns by the pool, the path
from
one room to the next,
The touch and smell of cushions
and then sheets
Are retrievable like an outdated theory, by feel
down
this blind hallway
to
those full shelves.
How I got there
and
where I went
Were part of the long, slow story of my life
that
unfolds across my half-
unconscious
gaze –
If I’m to be asleep
it’s
better to dream
Where the memory is like the wind
tossing
my soul like a flower
To gently rock in place
in
the shape of what is lost
As if the never-buried won’t be
entombed
with me after all,
And the never-allowed to come to life
will
continue to leap
into
other people’s synapse sparks.
We don’t yet recognize
the
voice of love.
We judge it like we stupidly judge the devil
as it
slips through any guise:
Is it he, or her, or that, or there, or when?
We
ask of the familiar sound
That always answers our questions
by darkening
the lights
and
turning whispers into silence.
