I don’t remember you.
You are always here as breath and as circulating blood.
Cover my face with a blanket of dirt and I will be with you in the sudden sky
sky with no stars, only our four eyes there
I am homeless. You are the alley way I dream and wake in.
I follow the curbs of your body looking for a hand
out in blessing.
Your voice is with me as tidal horns of traffic
and as drunk men in empty parking lots cursing God because they have lost another tooth.
Your voice is with me as wings of pigeons leaving these magnolia trees
Nothing is hidden from you and you are not hidden from me.
You stand in front, behind, on every side, alert as barrels full of fire.
From the corner of my eye I see your reflection in standing water
arms open to the murky sky, a dollar bill at your feet someone has thrown down
You tell me that on both sides of every struggle there is unbroken faith.
You say I am surrounded by mirrors
and that every mirror is an open grave where you are willing to lie down naked
to finish this struggle in my arms.
I can’t die
until my body remembers its relationship with the space between stars.
That’s when the dead let go, floating out of their graves, dressed for a wedding!
I am not afraid to love you as a human being, as something less than an angel
and more trust worthy than a God.
I have known your waves of love.
They carried me here
where I walk in these gutters running with rain
where I wait for you and for your last wave.
I did not come here to capture light, to hold it prisoner
then release it finally into night.
I did not come here to whisper “OM, OM…”
I came for you.
In my sleep I dream of wheat fields
bordered by pines and poplar trees in a river of wind.
Startled wood doves are bleeding into dawn.
Two hawks circle me
their shadows cutting through the grain like curved scythes.
66 years gone now.
I am not a young man ripe with love.
I do not follow the road that likes to rise between a young man’s legs.
Now I wake from my dreams in a bed, long married
happy, learning the bliss of contentment, the bliss of being satisfied.
I see you coming
sometimes with your hands raised in blessing, sometimes with a butcher’s knife.
Either way my love.
I like to go out walking, greeting strangers as if they are Rama
and I am Hanuman, his servant and friend.
The sky is not a wall for me. The grave is not a promise.
It is the marriage bed.
All that is left of me now is the outline of a body taut with emptiness.
But there is also a subtle joy
that does not much disturb itself with laughter or with tears.
I wait for you
to lay my head upon the shoulderless curve of you.