All Tomorrows

I write prologues no longer, but epilogues to grapes and tides and honk the horn as I drive across the horizon of the day after

here you are, in my car so perfectly yourself so perfectly you so perfectly next to me at the wheel, where I overlap her ghost and have become perfectly she. freedom is indeed a concise ache for it implies nothingness & free fall, driving with no brakes through the black hole in the sunset-bleed sky into the darkening ocean. I roam the world over the cliff

amidst the late-summer hills, at the still heart of the sunlit bougainvillea cottage, we kiss until we are one on the old kitchen table in the cool shade and the pantry smell of ripe apples. hold still, as She becomes you and You becomes she and moves on to a world of her own. it is alright now we've become We

the river narrows into a           sombre still pool in the black cave of ancient drawings, unforgettable horrors, world-ends cast in rock, and the stale air of doom --  why do you do this? , she asks -- to be sightless and hide from these weathers: I am more familiar with desolation and a ghost as vast as history. what must I sacrifice so I may roam the world again? Photo  Historas de Cronopios

it all seems so easy our hearts flow effortlessly until we poke a silly joke into an open wound and discover the mind-numbing power we have over each other

of course it is early of course I have to make a conscious effort not to plug her in the hole in my heart not to confound her with ghosts not to erase her own life that I love so much of course it is early the alternative though is sheer horror: losing her losing myself

in this first weather of so many to come, her radiant face pervades the liquid orange light inside the warmth of our sphere of astounding wonder and skin aglow. around our sanctuary of glass dragonflies scuttle across the humming lake, scouring the hours, while time slows down until we are entrapped, immovable in its golden treacle. all was new when we emerged at dawn ready

           under the hot grey sky            casting microwave radiation.        at the dark heart        of the jungle.      deep down      in the ravine. we locked ourselves away in the sanctuary by the blackest pool – no food, no sleep, no water, no light – and buried our teeth in each other’s shoulders engulfed in the fluids of our souls until we became a single steaming ghost never to let go ever

ever more rarely now you join me in the tomb that I guard to shed a tear with me for old times' sake, oh my roadside companion family of all these years through which we were there for each other. but at the end of the day you always return to the homes that you still have of unsevered lives where every hour and every day have not been amputated. you throw stones at me now, bible-loads of them, because I will no longer guard this tomb for all the pay I get is the deadly silence after the daytime crowd is gone, and I soak your popcorn in my tears. we were eight at first, then briefly seven. count me out as well now, for this boat, this house, this no-more tomb, has risen anchors. the doors are open, the river is wide