Splintering

 

Through the hedges darkly buffeted by the feral state of gravity,

of the unspeakable, its melancholy birds preening under the sun

caught in the breath of a revelation: summer lying, you.

 

We cannot suspect the horses running to be like the past

harnessed still to what’s not fading away; crisp hellos are a theory

of disembodied music, gospel at times, your blues most of the time.

 

Let me hold the perfect hand, white, blinding, lifted high

to make me touch the melody in a forest once you said

was giving you death, the time my eyes were full of skies.

 

Seasons arrive in no known glimpses of flowers, of falling

leaves, of snow splintering into muted signs. A living clock tells.

The river runs past you and me, flowing into forked destinies.

Now the mocking presence of the forgotten: how could you

not know that part of your existence was built on large ruins?

Oracular was I to echo your bone to your bones: Xanadu.

 

 

In the context o