#7

On the other side of time, I danced to the clamor of church bells. I erased my mark from stars and street lamps and the wisps of cloud creeping towards the moon. Everywhere, I found doors. Altogether, the many I had met in the dark. Walk briskly. And disappear from view. The sound of others' songs. Antony at the curtain, weeks ago. Like a bird, young and too far from the nest. "Confuse your hunger, capture the fate."

Or a plane, in evening glide, the cabin a spattering of reading lights and jackets wedged as pillows. How I'd like to be there now, still and cramped, asleep in discomfit by your side. A boy, long ago, at the piano. Or the window. And the flute, propped against the glass. As the rain came over fields, and the ghosts of comic books and fairy tales beckoned from the forest and the river behind. Actaeon at the gate, the ranger now, and solemn. I took you there to see.

Oh, my muses, living and dead! Let your night, this night, be yours. Frolic on broad plateaus. Sit in bars with common tongues. Dream uninspiring dreams, and sing on empty streets as you journey home alone. Be as children, mother and father dressing you in olive leaf. kissing you goodnight in the grotto wreathed with pine. For you, I will write with an empty heart, no genius to translate into poetry. Promise me your ownmost, now, a sudden. Promise me you'll keep it with yours in passing.