(and there
at the unrequited death
of all my desperate lingering
at last
I was ready
to love.)
(1.)
whenever
you
would
arrive
(home)
the rusty hinges
of our garden door
would slip
another of your secrets
beneath the trowelfuls of sky
such are the skeins of geese
forever calling down
from those great heights
about other nowheres
foreign more than ours
(I suppose then
it is no great wonder
that now
all across
the great blue mute
the clouds
all look
like you
like someone nude
welcoming
at last
the full translucence
of something human.)
(2.)
when the shaking stopped
and
your
fluidity
washing back
on itself
doused
the colors
melting at the edges
of every sunstruck dream.
did it feel like falling
out of your clothes
at end of day?
that tender apocalypse
of shoulder blades
attending
a shattering of sky
did it feel like anything?
when the birds
in the back of your head
carried you out
in pieces
through the clefts?
(I cannot help myself
always I return
to rip open the night
and find out
how much of you
is in my bones still
and how much of you
is moonlight.)
(3.)
and here I was a man
that still dreamt
of skies abloom with you
and here at last
you had
become dusk
that is to say
another open wound
to be drunk
until blue.
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