We are apart
but the memory of this time
this very time this hour
a week ago
last week in fact
so vivid fresh
it must be true
no idle dream
or fancy’s flight
but oh so very real
and very true . . .
 
naked on our bed you lie
for me to draw to sketch
I let my hand and
pads of fingers five
describe those shadows  
your body forms and folds -
that dark dark space beyond
your folded arm and resting breast
and then a plateau next
the smooth persuasive lowlands
of your bottom’s rise and just
before descent miraculously
a crease (as if from nowhere) forms 
and runs and disappears
deep deep deep into the depths
between your thighs . . .
 
. . . and then to gaze
at the kind disorders of your hair
hair in which I love to lose my nose
and feel my eye-lids stroked and kissed
by twists and sudden unexpected curls
(and maybe find an ear and with
the tongue’s most tentative touch)
the confluence the turbulence the trace
and thread of nature’s line and stem . . .
 
Know with the mind’s eye
        ​these forms I hold entire
and all the while your beauty’s
         ​gentle song plays on
         ​looping forever in the mind’s ear

In the darkness of the living room
the street light breaks through the blinds

He sleeps on the couch
A flannel blanket so small
every night is a decision
Shoulders?
Or feet?

I give him a fresh diaper
and light him a smoke

Tonight
before bed
he tells me a story
the only one I have ever heard from him
about the war

His best friend was named Mike
Mike got sick
Fever and blood in every cough

"I kept telling him everything was going to be okay"
He said
"but he kept asking me to leave him
Said to just send his wife a letter.
I never found any letter.
I wrote one later as if were him"

"I found him one morning
Cut his own throat"

My father's gone through five cigarettes by now

He lays down
covers his feet tonight

"When you're a burden to the people you love
it is okay to give up
That is what I am trying to tell you boy"

Just like that
he gave up

I am not saying my father was a good man
But in the end
I forgive him
for everything

Believe in the unabashed wonder plain on my
open face

         we sow the future now, and my veins flow with the
                best for you

     nothing is torn down like walls, we'll live a long life, we
                                    will, as beautiful as the leaning forest before this mighty breath

   close your eyes, you
know I share my voice, now
         take comfort, everything
   is alright.

VII
 
 
As you fold
and crease your words
sheet upon sheet
a running commentary
flows,
ebbs and flows:
 
your present reading;
that playlist of songs
to sing in solitude;
reflections on ‘proper’ letters
and the lost art of spelling.
Such word-gifts . . .
 
. . . and you ask if I mind. . .
when what you tell me
fills those empty rooms
I put aside for you:
to live undisturbed
in my imagination house.
 

VIII
 

The end in sight,
the samples stitched,
book-bound.
Show me,
and turn the pages
in your silent way,
 
no comment required,
none given.
The day is closing.
Time parts: for a tired child,
a birthday meal,
and now your mother’s smile.
 
Whilst at work in her kitchen
you thought-visit
my peninsula home,
pondering a duet
of music and sea-breathing silence,
distance everywhere.
 
IX
 
White and Yellow,
the final sheet,
a sign to stop.
With the care and formality
of closure the writing
ends, with just
 
your name.
How else could it be?
There’s no other word
embossed on
these coloured pages
I pick up, I put down.
 
My fingers trace the braille
of your pen’s indent.
the pressure and print
of letters formed.
Your very touch now
lies beneath my own.
 
 
 
*Legend has it
that anyone
folding
a thousand cranes
may have their heart’s desire.
 
For now,
just eight orizuru
with words
of friendship
written on their wings.

IV

Before your work
you sit, so still
as in a painting
by Hammershøi
(Isa’s hair,
so like your own).

Beyond the desk,
the bay window
stretches your gaze
to the fox-frequented garden,
the hedged less-leaved beech,
the un-blossomed pear.

Now, in the mind’s eye,
your son, your daughter
bed-bound in a doorway:
(a tender moment witnessed)
then the silent grace,
the shared meal.

V
 
Night falls
and done for the day
the violins unravel.
Only on a brittle guitar,
a Prelude:
Subtle Mysteries of Sleep.
 
As you close your eyes
tomorrow beckons (in a list),
and thinking backwards:
the nettle soup tale;
a birthday cake adventure;
breakfast on the patio with sunshine.
 
Premonitions? Perhaps.
But in yesterday’s paper
a shock of poetry,
plants the seeds of blank verse -
no pointers given
(save these folded words).
 
 
VI
 
 
That evening
?I asked the questions,
and later you said:
‘If I’d not wanted to tell you
I wouldn’t have’.
I’d already guessed. I knew.
 
out in the garden
a sunny day
skuddering clouds
white as the blossom
left and loose
leaving lightness
 
That evening,
as the minutes
ticked away,
I seemed at last
to see you entire,
even your quiet hands.

noon grass, gin & my eyes.
heart attack
in back of a fancy/long/black/car.
fall skies & sun thru the trees.
(ashes in a bowl)

just play it.
(whatever it is you're doing right now),
take it down further and further.
go as deep as you can with it.

it doesn't matter what it is
or where you are
down will stay down
and you will go deep.

zoom right in
lose all else
don't even think about it
just feel it out.

let it happen.
don't be scared.
let go.
get involved.
love everything deeply,
without reservation.
get attached.

then when it all gets
too much,
pull out for moment.
take a breather.
remind yourself
that it's all just a game.

then you'll find
it isn't so hard anymore,
to live dangerously,
to live madness
and love madly.