Monday 4 June 2018

As I near the intersection

As I near the intersection,
the ghosts of love linger in
their heavy cloaks.

Here is where Mel and I pushed a dying car.
Here is where I snapped photos with Donna.
Here is where I tried to play the uke with Linda.

Mel, Donna, Linda
—the names are now just words
and distortions of something
something good;

The failure of the words to represent the love
like the failure of my heart to cultivate the love;

it is a heart that’s tried to throw the sword down
but still meets with the ghosts
of dead intersections,
each of us cloaked
in our own

That morning rain

What was it about that morning rain
far from where the homeland lied,
far from where our tongue was spoken
and where I knew a face
in people passing by?

What was it about that rain
that fell through early mornings
in Kazakhstan
and Georgia?
That exotic morning rain…

If the sun appeared
it took its holy place before the lovers of the world.

If the fog came thick
it stalled the dying of the night.

But our partner in the dance
—that early morning rain
miles and miles from home:
it didn’t need to speak of love
nor think upon the night.

That exotic morning rain
came tender with the dawn

and with it washed away
all we’d known before.

Where is god?

Where is god?

I don’t know.

But at times there’s a certain stillness
and silence
within which 
such a question appears the wrong one to be asking

and what the right one might be
seems best left
to god.