Our Epitaph

Thus - it is written:
in blood - our epitaph.
In Greek - our travels
hanging dangerously from the clock.
My own is of ‘ash foundation’ and ‘golden feet’
as I have repeated in an all too odd fantasy:
The fair skin and red brow
the shapely teeth, on the carefully
conspicuous smile.
‘Cold air and warm lips’
tightly pinched together to keep our ‘real’ alive;
like my own cancerous egg.
Wasted - filler proposing replacements for -
the lovers.
But still in our hands, closely woven in another time
(precise in its function)
lied down a web - so faithfully knotted.
And yours - is the name sung from trumpets
tattooed on many a palm
the feathers of a nodding angel
plucked, prematurely.
But - now - with voice
the mass must recognize your eyes -
a miracle, none the less, like from the banks of the Red Sea;
by your right hand - blind men shall see.
And now, I must understand how the inspiration
comes, motivated by ‘the experience’ and not the fantasy of.
How the blank space - between us - lacks hope
and cultivates, only tragedy;
played out, written in blood
our epitaph


To Heather
February 1998