This was a Very good night:
20 February 2018
Lost on the Ride
It’s a wet pillowcase ours will be, come the morning. A wet little hand leaves a wet little trail
as it traces the side of your face. Weather’s warming; it’s almost about to be spring. Without fail,
we’ll have wept ourselves into a new verdant season, dreaming with one mind, though sensing apart.
There’s a broad, lush green memorial lawn that will welcome us—long, long before we lose heart.
I sat on the swing of an evening with one hand held out, casting measures of seed far abroad.
Swing harder, swing higher! The seeds go out flying away on the wind of another world’s odd,
slightly dislocating and lonely plane till the pitch of it lands in my stomach. My flesh
goes weird in a way that feels lovely, and I want to feel it again. Then I measure the mesh
of the words as they run through my mind on the thin edge of sleep every night. I’ll be coming home soon,
I tell them with every sweet vision in which we are met with ourselves and our lovers. A Moon
rose over the worlds where our hearts were first vowed to be friends with imaginings so real and wild,
everything kisses from this moment on with its true cast and image and—bears its own child
from the mouth of the fiery inferno in which it took life amidst pain and the echoes of pain.
Down through the years, we were achingly lying where souls could not reach verdant places and rain
like the tears that are just on the fine verge of coming, the surface where wetness will run and run through
your fingers and mine as we twine them together and who is it now, is it me, is it you—
I’ve forgotten; this session’s gone on a long time. Curtains are swaying; the very walls hum.
Somebody outside is quietly playing a flute, or a radio. Love’s yet to come
to a solemn conclusion, but this much is certain: Storm’s on the rise, and the window’s cast wide.
Bound to be virtual lakes in this bed, but I can’t do aught now; ‘I’ got lost on the ride.