short-circuit

it seems i am losing myself
which is i must admit most delightful
all i have left is a sort of song
for the cicadas to sing at noon when the heat surrounds us like death
when flesh and blood are wound
a song for the jasmine to sing when the evening sinks in slowly
to humble us
for beauty is bountiful and we are fresh and blood again we are hands
to clasp hands with
despite fear and the future
a song which is breeze from the window at night
when i am here and you are not and
i think of our sighs
i think of our sighs and think dare i say
sighs will have sighs i think of
our eyes which meet and look
look
and see
our eyes as seas as clear mirrors or deep
deep wells over which to bend and quench this fire

this dewy thirst this wilderness
of the heart

i think of your heart and mine i think allow me to say
of palisades collapsing like hiroshimas
of our hearts naked and pumping their wounded substance which is
i dare say
pure love and
i think of your words which meet my words
and mold them into how shall i say
poetry
i think my god of your hands on my body and suddenly
language is terribly
terribly barren.