How profound, the sound.
Raindrops are angels,
wedlocked to the devil.
The fusion of loyalty
and passion, lethal.
I can see the river
wide and narrow,
the history of our truth.
Lips, kisses, words
spoken again, and again.
Swathed in roots
and moments to celebrate.
Now cast your long shadow,
all over me.
 
 

In september,
silence draws in.
Until the ritual bells
start ringing.
And the sharp-eyed
magpies roll across
the high plains.
Then, through the sun
and the moon.-
souls will rise again.

The music raises its head
to an imaginary sky-
trying to get us to trade.
A flower in a bottle,
a husband and blood
for our time.
We all know the
promised land.
But for those who
have bled, there is a
death grip on the grail.
And still a drumline pulse,
to greet a new-born land.

You told me
about catching the wind,
under a closed circuit.
A Bach fugue,
on a bright road.
How sublime
this wave of love.
How completely
it surrounds my bones.
Like a kiss
sealing a mouth.
And goes on….

I want to see your eyes thicken,
as though you have seen me again.
And talk with you in your silence,
before jellyfish kiss the surface.
Afterwards, fluted with jasmine,
and flung by the sea.
I believe you to be mine,
with so fragrant a body.
My words written in your flesh.
 
 

Where does the autumn wind
catch its melancholy?
Overseas, and drifting forever.
Or by the water lilies,
covered in the dust or war?
For a moment, and away
from the crowds –
I let my thoughts go back.

Silence of the slow river.
Silence of the clouds.
Each a nervous drift,
both carrying a dream.
A prophecy of enlightenment.
Their burdens and tears,
rising fast and vanishing.
Then, we are all able
to see out the night.

Sometimes my joy
is just to walk.
Each step a
a flower bloom.
Each pause
remote and candid.
And as the magic
shadow plays.
I hear a voice,
a thing of mystery.
Sometimes a sail,
or a smile of the water.

I see the moon,
dressed in jade.
Beyond the rustling
sounds of the sea.
Something sings to me,
a bloodless sound.
Alight with goldenrod,
and souls dancing.
Blasted high,
and freeing the
stifling laments.
So, headlong- we can all
stretch towards the sky.
And live again, beyond
these infinite aches.

I told you I read Hemingway
and Graham Greene.
You told me I wasn’t
important enough for a spy
to be interested in.
But my words are
more yours than mine.
And I can make them
occupy the spaces in your soul.
So that your deep longings
migrate, and your thirst flails,
charged with insanity.
As you wait for my lips,
to touch yours.