Haunted by the fall of rain,
the thirsty stones
reciting what the stream had said:
our pond is low, so low,
and the coasts have fallen silent.
There is a fire on the plain
and on the tablets
figures tranced with
love’s cold fury,
prelude to what the
obliterating eye
will fail to see,
seeing always and only
mistletoe and accident.
Dark flowers, mingled
among black grapes,
weight and stress
shone through the purple.
Drunk with the fumes
of clubfoot laughter,
a couple in love dazzled
through the night meadow.
Yes, then, a cowering yes.
In an island air charged
with sight, not vision,
the flower’s bloom
unmentioned, the sole spice
worth dying for,
a girl kissing mouths of air,
promiscuous ghosts who gesture
desperately and cannot speak.