What happens when a year has passed without a word, but the word returns without an idea, without a face?
A passion beyond my eyes,
Beyond the haze of sense
(when they type, my fingers disappear;
They cannot speak of you again),
And my only hope forms on my lips:
My breath will find your breath
In ravishing darkness underneath the Saturn of the sky.
I write in darkness
(it’s not quick enough to catch the ever-meaning)
And the madness of the spoken word
Is heat atop my cheeks, the tremors screwing my hands.
I twist a strand beside my neck,
As if that can hide how readily
A passion has return –
It tumbled from my lips.
I am stranded, I am stranded
Between knowing what is right and whatever
Sends me spiralling (they wondered
Why I thought I was ill. Now look at
Me), through Heaven.
And back to my Earth when I bump on lights.
Yet, I have no need to stop
And watch what I say (I remember now:
They told me not to speak of you aloud).
Just one notion would calm me,
Even as the poems rush above my soul’s return;
Drench me, drive me, coax me out.
It’s the long-gone passion.
Another poem found my need and it will
Escape before it’s caught,
Scattered ash beneath my ears and feet.