It hurts
So much more than ignorance To remember it now.
To recall that particular sun right now –
stuck in fretful petty winter's stucco corner.
Your favorite song winds heretic into my ears – how can I hear
the verses now – it pierces more than it ever did
When I first felt it dying.

A long wisp of smoke drawn out
the car window – I can still squint
and see your face the way it stood between
The glare of Virginia green and mitsubishi glass – I can hear

your song with
All the permanence of Eliot's lost bride
Lost benediction
The last wisp of its creation
In the one twisting ecstasy – you

You, singing the last chorus to a sky rim shrinking
You, an eye facing the blood of the sun
How could that song ever have
Had Done with you?

In the cold of foreign winter
and unnatural cold
Your song makes so bold as to sing to me –
moments such as us can die

More brilliant upon the waves of a bitter wind
than the oldest man on the coldest bed.

But to sit here beside the Artic
is a fault to heaven. I can still recall
Your golden face – a day when my soul was made
to cleave to Pauline Beauty.

Joni Mitchell on the stereo and
Virginia blossoming in full sound as
only we two could have understood.

We two – for its singular brilliance in the face
of a thousand strange nights –

You and I
You and I

Prophetic victims, my pure zephyr, consumed
by summer air.

You crystallize now, impossibly fair in That
moment. that One Perfection – ours

on our way to the resevoir.