I get frantic sometimes, when the heat rises up
from the sandy streets. Recollection
suffocates, and I go in search of air.
I stand where you stood, near the red door,
or beside the table where we celebrated.
I mimic your gaze and affect your repose,
but the geometry falters and I give it up.
I take resolute walks in the evening,
passing vacantly through the supermarket
– I feel you here. You were cold once
and I warmed you.
Outside, the night erupts.
I stride through hollowed-out
spaces where you moved, your empty silhouette
embossing the air like a seal of silence.
I see the world in mute frames, shattered.
Like lustrous mercury, currents of
time coalesce beneath your feet. Gravity
rings round your graceful figure,
drawing me towards disaster.
Soften, wondrous woman, so
that I do not wreck myself.
What need have you of a poet-child, an idler, a
theorist? Only a geometer could uncoil your sorrows
and restore your orbit.
I remember a vision of you on a balcony in
New England by the shore. You stepped out
of your room and light shone radiantly from within,
outlining your impossible beauty against a star-filled
canopy. You called to me but I delayed, and the gulf
between us stretched wide into the inky
I am no scientist, geometer, or man.
I cannot plot the line that returns me to you.