Varieties of torture inflicted, on me,
his tongue, lashing--lasting, a continent
and a sea of blame away. He
writes to me, intimates
intrigue, in translation. Tells
me he
has lost something in my city, secretly
believes another has been found.
Tells me he
would be bound, to this very bridge-
if it might abstract. Simple passage
of another man's emotion, and here
he stands, clutching
the cable. Over
the wire, tiny fiber
optic bundle
which carries
his voice--brings me
to a familiar place
I've never been. In love
one never explains
enough
about the symbols seen
along a botanic path. To
me he
could be a Paris garden,
something beautiful
I may bever see fully.
Soon, I believe
he will begin
to describe
familiar seasons in
a language
that is strange to me, but I will understand more
than I let on. I will locate someone similar
to give me a blow-by-blow,
word-for-word. Ashes to ashes, the garden
grows; destruction, fertilizer
for the blooms that use the difficult
materials of the earth for food.
Such is lust, and longing, deadly fodder
for clever flowers to leach
from distressed ground. A[t] the anchor
points of a bridge too small, we walk
toward each other for a stability
that would keep us from crashing
to a complex eden beneath our need
for control--over wild growth.
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