Beyond Recall

for Thom Gunn

Imprecision of the senses at midday:

stirred,

            having been struck

by the sharp bitter-sweet of a new wine

drunk in a clouded bar

– where                                

to nose and tongue came the tang

of pickled onions, of briny olives and, raw

to the back of the throat, the reek

of cheap cigar smoke.

Light                                     

on crude gems that define a haze.

They, once possessed – though precious

beyond recall – remain his

alone

          who inclining toward the past

hears nightingales in the dark, yet never can

transcribe their fluid melodies.