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I'm up past midnight again, too many books to read, unsettling matters to sort out in my mind.
I'm swamped.
Sometimes I wish for one more hour to fill the day so that I could finish my tasks all
at once, but that would be a bad idea, for then I would have to tolerate your absence at
a longer period of time.
Now all I can do is imagine myself passing you on a street, a casual encounter as if I
didn't wish it all along while the spacious air drips its anticipation on my skin of
honeysuckle, the shade I wear every summer.
The same spot we first met where our shadows refused to let go of the moment and embedded
themselves firmly in concrete. Sometimes the smell of the past teases me sharply, and my
eyes sting as if I've been looking right at the sun.
The moment you traipsed off somewhere to become a guru, I strove on trying to build up my
own solitary image. I'll grow, eventually, and in the meantime, I'll bind myself to the
crescendos of daydreams to keep me steady on my toes.
For I find that the hum of sweet delusions can mellow the aftertaste of silence
that consistently underscores my solitude. There's nothing arbitrary about the
way the axis of your world turns; according to my calculation, you're way out of my
alignment at the moment.
I told you once you are a great poet, and you poured water down the earth to
pacify some gods for you feared my liberality might have set off their anger. I study
your words like a chart of a new constellation. If I could interpret your metaphors,
I believe we will be brought together again outside the realm of trance and wishing dreams.
© 5/9/02
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