As shadows lengthen,
as the horizon smudges
into secrecy,
as the ocean withdraws
into a misty November opacity,
feelings begin to grow more medieval.
And I long for you
as other lovers have before me
in a great melodic deluge
awash through history,
veined silver with melancholy,
deep-throated, brine-flecked, with yearning.
Twilight is the light
for lyric poetry,
a stab of blue kingfisher poetry,
a small blaze of longing
and regret
that is almost love,
too slight for immortality,
too intense to go unsung.
I almost understand now
why the women
in those poems I’ve ritually deplored.
wandered over to their mirrors,
tracing against their lips
the winestain of an unforgotten passion,
coiling against their necks
seething torrents of hair
into a muted tempest,
still electric with desire.
And it feels like I too could
wait for you,
while I perform
the erotic liturgies of another world,
who understands like none other
the prosody of my breath,
wait for you
and you alone.
But only until the light fades, my love,
only until the light fades.