The icy glaze of your eyes has defrosted and
way back there in the mountains, your pupils lie
I once sat on a boat with you and
thought to myself ( but also you for you were I) of infinite small waves parting like particles of sand
things were fine .
were you upon precarious wood or somewhere reflected in the poisoned waves?
Is this a painting to which you were omniscient narrator or did I grind up words to feed you?
how many before have lay in those ripples and drowned?
They say the water in the loch is 200 feet deeper than we may see there
were 13 words for you my love
for you it was slow drowning but for
me it was like soaring above the waves. it seemed so still
but so solid as i fell, the truth?