and then the heart, to believe in the cryptic,
a canticle of temporary, breakable or already
broken dreams and songs that were meant
to be all we needed against wind and storm.
At nightfall I can believe in many things
impossible in the luminous morning;
the nacreous moon steals reason,
hides truth behind a soothing façade,
impassive, pretending and remote.
I see you silvery, as through a prism, a drop of water,
or a veil of forest leaves mottled in a dozen
shades of green, there but for a fleeting second
and then not, just beyond my reach, grasping,
groping to touch your face.
So much regret, so much loss, pooled on the floor
like a sheer curtain, shielding but exposing
injury that cannot heal or mend itself
as though we were already gone, leaving nothing
but a gesture, some fragments, a few poems.