Swing

There is nothing

more than a swing-

door between living

and dying.

You have mastered

the art, half-

in, half-out,

time’s magician,

of spinning something

out of nothing.

You conjure seven years

out of seven days, seven moons

out of half a song.

I’ve got the hang

of this, you say,

This dying

lark, and here

you are, living

as hard as you humanly

can, all the way to dying.

You set the door swinging

so fast I don’t know

if I am coming

or going,

spun out to thin air

or reeled back

to your mouth

for the kiss

that denies we are dying,

dying on the way

to living

or living

on the way to dying,

and we are laughing

so hard we can’t tell any more,

meri jaan, cariad,

we can’t tell

if we are laughing

or crying.