no more

what was it like
   can’t I remember
				blessed are they that
if memory could
only
				mourn
   for she is still that gaze 
the sudden shudder of surprise on 
      olive skin
		no
more
	the eyes that drown me
	for they are liquid still
	and vision of the soul
		tidal and deep
 for she is present quite
    to be refuted as impossible
				for
to the electric pulse that shivers in
	my finger tips
   to
only
	once
more		caress
				they shall be
				comforted




the site of love

call it
call it now
   to your chameleon
      skins and voice
         of love 
that lies
here on a bed of visionary worlds
   and trace your mark
   enter on the instant
   my ready broken skin
      of many colours
     but when my touch is most and nearest
when generation loses generations
    as much as I
      does she
and find my damaged self
   a self for others
   when it is most . . .
      and almost . . .
then is it he can throw
   the gravity of light
across our limbs
   across the prism of the wind
for where else may it go
   weighed down
      with such light white and shadows
         and in such company


These from my Risk of Skin (Waterloo Press)