Feb 27

When Winter comes
Will I have told you I love you?
What will wilt in this dry air, and
what will become of desire?
What always becomes of desire.

Let's not be 
oblique, I mean 
my desire for you, a past now dim,
I mean,
that which is satisfied 
and hydrated
with satisfaction. When Winter 

comes for me what will wilt what will is
the will I have a memory of? your 

edgeless sloping skin
in my hand...


        And if I can 

even spit words
will I say, "at least I had eyes that day..."? 

       Your voice said 
my name, it emerged
from your upper register, it was 
everything.

Some of the
worst memories are like that,

a coat of feather down 
soft as dust,
a scent whose 

moments linger on
in the body's memory, 

awakened, 
and with a memory weight
dusty clay like powder, 

where your own body
image
lays in departed 

packets of dropped memory:
will even the air never forget? 


What good is Winter
then, if it persists 

or seems to exist
to show its the end 

of an age, but only 
in reminders of desire?

Are you under this sky

and is that moon
shaped the same
where you see it today?

What is a good Winter?

It is your eyes,
as time descends
upon them,
And my eyes upon
Them then
In that same time
Descended.