Unknown, I have loved you in each leaf of spring, each death of winter, until the turning seasons rose like dust beneath our feet. I still walk in the sun, gazing at shadow, and there is no one behind me to stay my arm, to say, ‘Wait.’ I have looked for you in every face, mistook the face for you. Whoever you are, these dreams have loved you well.
I,too, have loved before. This world, its creatures and their fantasies, their incredible beauty, the whole swirling cosmos of act-word-intention, my translucent single life, those brittle wishes, all the dreams lost to others — all that I have spun from my self. In my dreams I see their luminous marks. Murals that became graffiti, buffed nails, the prison walls chalked and hatched, stone upon kalend stone.
But this remainder I will lodge in my self, will shelter there as long as you wish it. I made you with everything I am not, an entire fall of water and desire, the sure direction of a riverine prayer. I shall deny this.