Even the dust settled bygone
on our aftermath like an event
destroyed and then dissertated.
Morningtide rose around us like
water over an island and the bed,
a raft in the metaphysics, sinking.
Oh, she thought I dreamt,
warmed by Abishag’s perishment.
I eavesdropped upon her
and her lyric somniloquence,
the auroras she dreamed,
and then silence came,
that good thief in this summer house,
placed a hand over her mouth.
I heard everything that was invisible:
the peach tree that transplanted itself
in a country without morning,
the garden whose gate I thought led to paradise,
the butterfly that circled to us from Argentina.
One indivisible love, a song of one note for two voices,
a single monolithic season,
carved from the cornerstone of the increate earth,
dripped through morning over a summer of nights.
In the morning firelight,
after all subtraction,
the streets will be bloodied,
for we lived in that kind of
city. Where even the night
was rented, like a room in a tower.
She returned to the obscure silks
of Paris’ lingerie like her résumé
and exited barefoot into the gloaming.
I see now, unable to greet
the same sun as everyone else,
I left my hand inside you. My only
weapon against the Song of Solomon.
Keep my hand - you will need it
to shake the hand of silence.
With nowhere to be,
she did not holiday
even to disagree
with the light’s argument,
that we can change
what we see. Brainwash.
I am not convinced.
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