for G.M.
Count each night
from a first
to a last,
an 'a priori' sequence,
a little like some radar's blips
interrupted by a static,
later polished by a silence
full of sinking ships and stars.
How many will pass
before you lose
count, focus,
remember that inner
tremor turned voice,
saying, "But I thought
I needed this,
now what?"
That lunge of bridge,
temple-fronted,
with his bright-eyed, red-lipped,
fully singing face before you,
a flock asleep under a sycamore,
shepherd bereft,
their grazing hunger
turned towards dreams,
dreams full of bleating portents, wisps.
Lose the memory of having
made love, of having
had his fingers
paint a seascape bordered
by mountains on your body.
Nights, ships, sheep,
dreams are enough. Like a pulse,
life will not wait
till the heart is ready.
Step to the moment's uncertain tempo,
let everything go.
