Sometimes in your hair a wind of love dwells.
It rises at street corners,
or in morning gardens hurt by the rising sun.
Sometimes on the breeze
I smell you before I arrive at your chipped red door,
scent of dinner for two, baked sweet potatoes,
scones with cream and jam,
the things you make from the songs you hum to yourself;
out of these your soul wafts
through this drunken garden to me.
The summer is in your dress as you turn in the window,
the sky is in your eyes,
sky overflowing with a bouquet of cranes,
And your world is in your embrace as I cross the threshold,
as I press myself to your impermanence,
and it is lighter than any migration,
than any wing, or moth, or mantis.
Sometimes in your hair a wind of love dwells,
and I seek it out with kisses,
which I plant like little assassins on your agile neck.
In the girl was a violence,
a century of hungers
that she often lulled to sleep.
Then, one by one,
from her open chest,
came red balloons,
fears I burst with
the sharp edge of my
She entrusted these things to me,
for a purpose I
would never discover.
In the soul of the woman,
the child’s despair was
I would always be child too,
I would know the
diving head first
from the flaming rocks
into an unrelenting
I couldn’t say where she is,
who she is with,
or what time she sleeps.
This sky stretches out
like an eternity of whispers,
and a tearing need blows from the east.
You ask why I can’t forget,
why I can’t just roll up my
pain with my sleeves
and get on with the business
of dying with other lovers,
fucking and bickering,
and making up,
until the sun herself
grows jaded, evicts me
from the wasted night.
You ask me why I can’t forget
a scent of wild hours
that dwelt in the dark armpits
of her fragrant life.
I don’t know, I don’t know why.
I am infected with a madness
of un-returned salt,
and even the calmest hour
is an ambush of memory.
I would like, somehow,
to exit this body of
the way one absently leaves a room,
and go far beyond
an earth of remorse
to a hill, a tower,
an unfamiliar town
that doesn’t recall me.
And then, I too
would know the liberation
of the one who kills love.
Making your way through the blossoms,
the world is in love with you.
Bright and unapproachable ones
repeat for us the play of the bittersweet branch.
Who doesn’t hurt in their outstretched blood,
in the presence of these sleepwalkers?
We would have you in our sleep too,
the way the spring has you now,
the way it wraps longing around your shadow,
and holds you in its jaws of wind.
You, girls of becoming,
forever breaking forth into new branch,
becoming youth’s glistening barb,
the burning in the defeated flame,
and messengers in the ear of summer.
There are blue distances we cannot break,
and there is a sadness in the hollow of love.
You, girls of becoming,
who leave through the rooms
burdened with a sand of bliss,
you are becoming, at last,
a refinement of shadow,
a birth of moss.
Each one takes from me something,
blade, foam, the sheath of saltwater,
the seaweed of my solitary joy.
Each one takes their share,
so that it might become them, or not.
Am I so easily exhausted?
For those who slept in my night of open windows,
a loam grows in the blue pit of their need,
and is a thread of messengers,
and a wind of return.
Those who fled with my blood at dawn,
are never beyond the salt of my caress.
Tonight I become the solitary bull,
the defiance of foam.
Above the nearness of your bone,
I am an invariable flame of necessity.
The hours become my bottomless appetite,
my blood a devouring wind.
I gouge shadows from the hollow of your body,
and scatter the spiders of your waist.
I topple bones and floods and a frenzy of insects,
the way the bull breaks the corners of its hold.
You are not me, but you were.
Now, your strides find the dark hour of confidence
and the secret that men fear.
Your body discovers a sexual music
and dances alone with itself
in the abandoned salt
and the wreckage of love.
And I have lost the bow to the cello
I once hid in the silent arch of your waist.
Giant and impossible,
you are beyond my small measure of need.
Your loosened hunger
burns the perimeters of my sadness,
because you are not me.
Free of me, you have become
a hurt aimed at my night.
You flirt with other men,
I burn in the pit of my poetry.
In your bed without suffering,
body of nude moss.
You stretch upon the sheets
like a sunrise of dunes,
and your dark eyes imprison the day.
Your smooth breasts invade my
I lose sight of the murdered groves.
Why didn’t I die there?
Why must we live beyond the bodies
we throw off like capes?
All else is suffering without hours,
pursued birds without a sky,
Knowledge of love burns
fevers through our braided tongues,
ruins of thirst entomb our sleep.
We linger beyond the death of nights.
I suppose I should forget you now,
like the honey forgets
the labour of the long dead bees
to become somewhere else a sweetness,
a treacle for the tongue of the sky.
The days we’ve burned in the urn of the wind,
the infinitely lost errands
that arrived in a storm of silence.
We’ll forget these two
tending their passionate hours,
as if hours have no departure,
as if lives don’t slowly form their own echoes.
Terminating seeds grow in the core of everything.
Only the honey remains,
sweet and sad,
after a thousand years.