Had there been thunderstorms?

.

No, but there had been dreams

.

April rolls its laughter of light, enabling

The world to announce itself, bursting

Cocoons of consciousness woven by a practiced blacksmith

Who then decides to let

Coldly sweet thighs of women

Turn black streets of England into a pinacotheca

.

And there was a flowered procession

(June set the imperial scene, as if the day were Corpus Christi)

To a perspicuous fountain

Our coalescing presences withstood

Lingering dogs, heel-minted petals,

Our breaths (which were the beating of our wings)

Purified of the sacred distance

Foretold

Melancholy torpedoes of this rain

.

Our bodies held to account

A dazed forgetfulness of grass

After that our entwinement was easy

Our ecstasies sung by beautiful prescient poets

And in my hand I then felt

A soft shape of attentive Summer

.

There had been thunderstorms, I know

But there must have been dreams

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As others predicted, it is.

I’ll guard this dark sweetness with all unspoken mights of jealousy

From the burning mark of past in which it was not mine

 .

Through to our brightly lit Manhattan flat

That we call future

 .

That I will trade empires for you

Is a given, as much as

A song I sing to touch your hesitant lips

The glory of your laughter

Is worth

 .

Nothing that I can put in words

Incapacitated willing

Sometimes

A scattered letter

That perhaps

Can mean a fraction

Of the feast

That you make of my lived world