The talk scared him. Left alone, with me,
at some water. (Suddenness of your mind,
because you will be saved. Stand there
counting deaths. My own, is what I wanted
you to say, Roi, you will die soon.)
it went well, till evening, and the birds
fled. Their trees hanging empty at the
river. All of it a creation. More than
ideas. The simple elegant hand, a man
will extend. More than we can lose, and
still talking lovingly of “ourselves.”
The brush sank behind its silence. This
was a jungle, dead children of thought.
We sat looking, and the wind changed
our fire, it was blue, and sang slowly.
Whose mind has this here? The way love
will move. I love you, I say that now
evenly, without emotion. Having
lost you. Or sitting, at the ruptured
threads of light. Wind and birds, spun
out over the water, silent or dead.