awake late.
red carnations on the tabletop.
the long carpet stretched out.
in windows silky black
half selves and whispers.
taxi cabs and streetlamps;
seething strains from the nightclubs,
a hundred faces
in the pavement.
and your face -
where, then, is it?
is it there, with the sandwiches?
or, in african violets burgeoning,
lion faces gazing
crimson faces, blue -
is it there?
here are the walls,
the windows,
the door.
and beyond -
a path winds down the slope
rat trees and scrabble,
and dead snails
and choking vines -
through the hill
where there will always
be more blackberries;
finger stabs
and stained fruit
and the end of me.
come with me.
Bring them back; we'll fill a glass bowl
and let them refract away -
in the red and silver;
my blood,
your forgetfulness.
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