Wanderings


At night I gather up oblivion, breathing in shadows
through fertile earth and the scent of moments
gone. I do it for you and the bones of our
branches, the soil above us smelling of moist
yearnings and yellowed photographs, long
boxed up in attics.
Remember when we died; we tore off
our dresses, crackling through melodies of
Mozart and his rich chromatics, dancing
round his grave, the three of us still young.

We’d lose the reins that held us in and gallop
aimlessly, like wild palominos through fields of
suns, where the sky became sky then, truly.
Stories you told me would waver,
hang in suspension like ancient carvings in the
recesses of the earth’s lament.

Now our house in the nebula rises.
Five or six times you have wandered out
the side door, laughing into indigo.
You mean to dream, I know.

As for me; I will swim into purple
vanishings, stray into places beyond the
reach of everyone but ourselves; where
all that happens remains and will never be
forgotten.