Then I Face the Cold, Alone

 
 
 
I stop at the foot of the hill this morning.
The hyacinth has been crushed under-hoof,
its keen scent falls up from the grass as the sun
sits behind the trees, keeping everything bleak
and between seeing, thinking, sounds and objects
there are spaces that are uncontrolled;
a divine hallucination like the short gap
between sleep and awake
and it's in this space I see you:
 
Stripped with dark puddled-eyes,
if you had voice you'd kill. If I was a moth,
and you a bird, I'd drink your tears
while you sleep.
 
If you could slip from your bones, your skin
would make the same noise as my lips parting.
 
I am not better than nothing. I have to go
to try and change that.  
I can only exist in between, as can you.
Maybe next time I'll see you
with moth wings flexing in the sun,  
on your chest, your eyes, dry as bliss.