My Thoughts Return to You.

                             


I can at last write to you without guilt
I’ve left him and you are back in town
I can feel it before I know it

Your smile was death’s shadow stomping around in my heart.
I creep in the fields
Of your distaste and I learnt to hate.
In my young life I’ve learnt to hate
And this is a love poem.

Well the fields are lit by moonlight
And my creeping obsessions have been here
For so long they are furtive
They have learnt to survive under the guise of dreams
I’m surprised to see them here at all
It must be a trick of the moonlight.

We live in interesting times my friend
These indeed are interesting times.

I and he
No longer have to practice the subtle art of self-deception
Or self-denial.
We had, and still have, true love: it was born here
Right here in my bed
Right here in the kitchen
Our son
But now he is our only true love and there are to be no more of our children.

Now the heart again begins palpably to beat. A strong calm beat.
I was startled at first that it was not pounding
And feared a loss of passion swallowed up by this sadness
But its life it wants now, not a heart attack.

We stare with limpid lights blinking, a morning’s misted rain on lashes
Fur milky white and blue
Tremble souls in the face of beauty
Travel souls in a secret place
A pale face in an upstairs window sees through for a moment
The palpitating air
And then we are gone
Mist spirits that make your dogs growl
And you call us obsessions because you fear to follow us.
We return when the dogs are sleeping or dead
When your eyes are open right to the soul
To the pith of you
Then you can see
And feel, and know why we hid.
Know the secret of us, why we exist at all.
Our spontaneous form flies then into a curl
Of a swirl
Of a morning’s mist.

I dreamt my friend that I picked up my own skull’s tooth and held it in the air.
I dreamt of the morning that I held my son and our shadows formed as one upon the wall
as we looked at each other
.
I dreamt of the world after everyone had flown for a day: the resultant art, architecture,
Their dreams after that one day.

Sometimes I have nothing to do but watch a candle melt
Life and wax-morality quick, then slow down a pillar.