De vulgari eloquentia
is no language spoken:
intact beginnings
intact ends: we both loved
the stars as children,
awaited eclipses.
The hours pass
until my flight, love
as intense
as the strong front
that will cross the coast
around the time I depart.
Today, the walk we unwind
and rewind, grey shrike thrushes,
wagtails, lichen, a spotted
gecko on its cairn of granite,
blue centipede coiled
in leaf litter, pollen-laden
bees, the constituents
we hope for, familiar.
Barometers.
Touch is speech,
spirits passing through us.
We need to believe
we are not malevolent
blockages, that the Ls
and Js of the old trees
on the hill are the source,
the consolation, the easels
holding our sight
in place. Each movement
an occasion, action, mud maps
of our shared autonomy.