A Meeting

When I meet you again,
in the silver hair years of our life,
I’ll tell you how much you’d hurt me,
how the gloves of pain that you flung down

were too much to take,
so too the robes of dust and years that trailed you
erasing the corners we’d filled with
our hoarded monuments.

The first to go, your touch,
then your eyes,
last the words that fell from your hair
like whispers on my soul.

And I’d tell you how I
walked, without respirators,
in the depths you
bore through me,

consuming liquid oblivions,
felling the plans I had watered into
great solid trunks,
hollows where we could have lived
till death took us like a wind.

I’d tell you how I fled from shipwreck to shipwreck
and all the women I bedded down like anchors,
and the awful silence that came in between,
leaving me wretched in your looming,
unanswerable beauty.

Then when I had reached the final angle
of my hewn madness,
from where all the torrents that had consumed me,
had finally run off,

I’d tell you how I had laughed
the laugh of all the booming peaks,
and could, at last, live my pain
like a song I’d whistle at forgetful dusk.

I’d tell you all this,
and hope that I could see it in the sad,
triumphant corners of your softly wrinkled eyes,
answering back the same pain.

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