From where she is
he seems singular,
clear as the silver
longing of the moon
filling the memory
of an empty ruin,
still hidden, despite
the hunger of light
and night’s dark preference
for burnt fragment.
He appears to be
relieved of the seeping
dross of nuance
no one but the stone
can name him now.
She grew somehow
haunted by the continuous
blue of his crevice voice
knew soon that a complete cry
even if he could make it
might leave nothing.
She rages, forgets
dreams of the ancestral
ocean coming
pouring over
the horizon.