Our walk together
has been, among many things,
a cascade of shivers
but
in the obscure temple
I neatly harbor
supine figures,
polished smooth,
fashioned raw
from Lorca's fearful crystal.
I would not be able to bear
the weight of my own soul
along with the burdensome rocks
which in themselves true,
but through my covetousness come
from the greatest depths
of human lies.
But if our walk
could be a dance
I would be grateful for
even the moments
that hang so uncomfortably
over green representations
of substance.
I often, when not thinking of you,
envision the world as an empty place
with occasional specters at milestones.
Or, it is simply a world of great silence
where there is sanctuary for meditation.
Sensuously released, your voice
awakens me with passion
into a world of action.
Being and Time
there is no more.
When I once scarcely saw you
out-shined in front of the window
on a gray day
you may be lost forever after,
out of sight, separated
by the turbulent waters
which are my here and now.
Acceptance,
which is to make use
of an empty garden bed
after a season's cruelty
can be even blissful
when only memories of
kindness and gentleness
are preserved
somehow
in the empty space.
