The light has dropped a curtain for the night
and once more you’re past the limits of
my vision. I can’t reach for you or
hear you speak my name, but there
you are in cloudy wings
of time flown by.
This burning flame
flickers like an oil-lamp
that wanes but never quite dies out.
The one truth I know I can rely on;
your fingers write desire upon my skin.
Where recognition lingers in refusal to depart,
suspended beyond day, before the dark,
a ballet danced, en croix, from the start.
great