Once I’d said to myself,
I was already gone      too far,
so, resigned, I said: just keep an offering
of that music,      (you know it, please)
that particular
pull, the natural
vertigoed clench, leaping of mountains
feeling, in your nervous system, can
travel at the speed of light when
you walk (do you see the motion
captured, the blinking lamps of
empty highways, your limitless
imperialectric nanoarchitexture? Please)

or when you remember walks      when,
on days, flying, those months turned
each in distinct color, each of
particular scent (March
the showered fruit breeze of her hair,
August her skin drunk sweet in
coconut rays, November smoked from
a candle left after dinner, pressed black
fabric, a woven clathrate dress, the bed
before you kissed her face,
before you’d said too much.)

Then there is the kind thinning
of longing, the palliated sigh of being
gently put to sleep after time lived
inuring joys.
That clings to all past. That is
the sediment of time.
You will surely know a day music will fail,
will give you only half breath,
when you’ll need one whole.
And upon that time, I will no longer
pull you      you will have to push yourself
free off a crumbling rock.