I’ve climbed into the lap of the maternal hills
and long only to be shattered and dispersed
like indivisible atoms through the invisible,
universal labyrinth of cause and effect,
to serve the night as a ripple on a pool
caught in moonlight, or a rustling willow.
I’ve watched meteorites stream across the welkin
until I ran out of things to wish for.
Catullus! Now there was a poet. He could make
the death of his mistress’ pet sparrow stand
for the colossal entirety of death’s mystery
within the body of the greater mystery of love.
Is the language even capable of that anymore?
The poor, half-starved words have begun
to cannibalise each other with no transcendence
to aspire to, nor even that absolute existence
in the present moment within their aeon.
Technology has even robbed us of that joy:
the letter – not the kind you slide a silver blade through,
but the kind you tear open – inside, nothing but FEELING;
like a bullet to the heart.
In your eyes, I see life and death curve into perfect circles
from which you fashion wheels for yourself and ride away.