rain glistens the gray face
of asphalt in this lurid eve

as the trickle-song thumps
the chords of metal,
the frequent hum of a passing mobile, a trembling moth in sight
pursuing the stillness of this
      eve

i remember once my hands touched
multipliedly the work of bone.

this too i remember: when you
were hesitant to say anything
yet eyes were as consenting
as a portent of rain, and as crude
as any language shouted
in between the rift of river
and hill -- there is much to remember in the field tumescent
with aromatic carnality.

it is without speech that everything desperately tries
to signal me something incipient
like an unknown flowering left
to be unearthed.

tonight it rains endless
with memory. the moth
unfolds its fictile allegory
without having to cocoon
around an unfazed inset of hot glow
in this eve of reminiscences
summoning you through
this flight of esoteric moth,
through the rain and its ephemeral burst of bloodless ripple,
through the sensual globules
of lampposts telling me of
a once familiar batting of eyes
and disappearance of darknesses

when our bodies made fire
during the eve of our discoveries.