Transmigration

a poem.

You never mentioned that May was eternal.
You neglected to say that the changing seasons
would change year after year and never
change at all. We sit here, amid lush tufts
of tall grass, and wonder how
these unchanging days might be changing yet,
how the old old earth will yield to new waters,
or whether the flora shall grow again,
despite the suffocation of the snow.
You deny me any answer.

Your Soul is an Old Soul.

You always said so. Though now, as the last
lingering traces of dead winter weight
and loose bramble have been washed away
clean alongside countless lonely souls,
washed away like the dust of countless
kitchen floors in countless little homes
where little wives are on their hands
and knees to keep things as clean
as headstones,
you, in your glorious antiquity, have laid
your hands upon me.
Should I speak?

Now fades all Earthly Splendor.

We shall be here again, in this eternal May.
I will keep my peace and watch your fingers
work, weaving crowns of wild dandelions.
Mercury will surge hot and soak the memory itself.
In each eternity, eternally occurring faces
Of the same death and burial,
Of the same cavity rent and poured
Out upon the same lips, shall return
And wink at each other, kiss, curse,
Exchange goodbyes, lock eyes,
And say nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Seven times nothing.
Three Divine Faces:
Nothing. Apeiron. Light
Without air.