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


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


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


A scattered letter

That perhaps

Can mean a fraction

Of the feast

That you make of my lived world