I open my eyes to let you go
And hold on a moment longer
Morning, and its forceful breath
Shakes the dangling blossom off the tree.
I remember you once saying
Beauty always arrives too soon,
And that's precisely the right time.
If I dream of inaction …
I stand in that time before time
Where all possibility lays over
A field of bristling deep white
And all the words that are unwritten
Outreach every star ever stitched.
Sometimes, I picture in absence
All things waiting to be connected
To one continuous present.
Where those not yet born
And those who have lived
Exist together side by side.
Were I then to write of action
I would be drawn by narrow pleasure
Into a slow but diminishing realm.
And so I walk upon this stage of life
Set before this night of a thousand eyes
Sans players and bereft of fife and drum
My given charge to sift the truth from lies,
To extract from the ore of distant past
Some kernel of what the years ahead may hold
And though I know full well the die is cast
My gestures and speeches long since foretold
And I am content with the part I play
In this warhorse my fathers have composed
Though other dramas are now underway,
Sad and hackneyed things which I had supposed
Would proceed, my presence not required.
The director demurred when I sent regrets
And so that preordained was what transpired,
This life no stroll upon the parapets.
What is that sound, when water meets water.
Sometimes far off, like fine down drifting
then close by, giving everything in hard metallic bursts.
A man and a girl like you, once met in the half-wind -
half-water, as night fell upon the wood.
As the trees exhaled, they saw how to be ****;
how to retrace a moon from vague beginnings.
Tonight, it groans sideways across iron roofs
that seem to bend double, even as they hold their own shape.
Somewhere far off, the wind speaks the name,
that whistles bird-like, across the deep water.
And the unfathomable that rest, undisturbed,
murmur fluent lyrics to instinctive melodies,
which become lost, in the hour and the light.
Hunters from the dark
dancers in neat bunches
consolidate together as shadow.
Waiting for first light, they wait
to see what they become.
Their hands work down
broad cavalcades of ochre;
flames glint on vigorous tools.
Maneuvering across, they move
with bright reverence
and their own deep purpose.
On the wide grassland
each thing gestures its appetite,
and its consequence.
If at the end we become strangers, one last time
and collapse in on ourselves like a dying star.
Try to remember, how the light from morning
once stretched out over a sky, to settle in on our crowns.
A fleeting city, a monument to ghosts and moments,
paused to anoint us. It allowed us to be,
who we had dreamt we could be
when we used to play in front of a mirror.
I try to imagine if day never ended,
and had the light not burned itself out
could we have remained in a city of memories?
And yet, even as we return to our darkness
I am aware of the horizon surrounding everything,
which has not yet disappeared.