EN SOURDINE

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.