I say this before all that is your world:
a fortress-fiefdom in Sweden,
blue bull tracks threading autumn,
one who needs proofs to love,
the puppet plays of Chikamatsu,
stone breakers in weatherproof boots.

You see, I become nothing but
a gravitational collapse
in time’s cracked rigging-shells,
an ice crystal sleeping with uncertainty
a kitchen god nestling in the void,
or a river flowing into a nethermost wind
until I am with you.

So, you eater of ashes, fling those proofs aside
and open your mind too long asleep with death,
learn to breathe the way love sets free
in undying light
and needs no proof
in a country of spectator snow.

Wild Transitions Contents