A RAY OF SIGH

your silk-like hands

in the silvery face of time. time,

silvery and unclad, slips through the

pores, unbridled -like a wild horse whose

impossibility of taming answers only to the

                                              prayer of the winds.

 

and the sky’s gardens.

 

amend your soil with

fragments of what’s left of me -

 

the need to dream of you

as the eye folds into the lid.

 

and to hear you, in between.

 

tender tender tender

the soil will become.

 

it will give bread. It will give

wine. and flowers will grow 

in the places where you closed

all doors and windows; 

your darkness -

                     imprisoned. 

your voice - 

                     a gatekeeper.

 

now, another -

there. 

 

a gardener.

 

someone who sings in your own 

voice; a separate mouth, red, warm, 

like the blood rising in you as you listen.

 

the tin roofs of the buildings

are quiet - no, hushed -

with the light of the sinking sun.

 

I put my cigarette out. I catch

a glimpse of my reflection in the dirty

glass door, ajar like summer. 

 

who am I, I ask, if not you

on the precipice of your coming and

going?

 

the air yellowed by the freshly lit street lamps,

stretched on the sinless ground and across

your hidden desire (most primal, raw, infallible)?

 

I don’t answer. 

nor does the reflection in the glass

distorted now with cooling heat.

 

I suspect even the question

begs an answer.

 

but I know. 

 

your silk-like hands in the 

bluish face of another turning point. time,

silvery and resembling you slips

through my tendons, my chest, my hips, 

my sense of liberty - 

like an untied river of an unsaid language. 

 

(say rain) 

 

wine. bread. 

 

(say rain)

 

flowers. gardener. 

 

(say  rain)

 

rain. 

rain.

rain.

 

across the maps of our mortal bodies the border lines soften. and distance no longer holds meaning.