He stands, then sits.
Alone, up, reading.
The desire burns, mysteries like a knife,
Her memory of it —
The detail she forgot —
In that place, deepened, as she fell into his arms.
‘I will be fine soon.’ she said.
April. Burning forests after midnight.
‘I was walking all upside down.’ he said.
He tries to go back,
To pull back the accentuating descent.
The cable cars,
The stream dividing strange words.
The pictures, his dreams in the night.
‘My Life. Funny how things turn out.’ he said.
‘But funny must go. The crazy one, He and I were never here.’
The moon split the trees to be apart from the earth.
And then what?
Chances without safety nets,
Stolen words from borrowed books.
The room was dark,
The big buddha, his mistress, the train,
They were never coming back.
And the world was still young.
‘Our lives are like a symphony played staccato.’ he said.
‘Miles from anywhere, miles from the older us.
Perhaps we were never meant to get old.’
It was the desire of wanting desire,
Not the desire itself.
‘When you fall enough, you divide.’ he said.