Ι

A sub- or super-sensibility,
exquisitely fine-tuned, can summon up
special information, specially told:
those liminal messages and meanings
that never seem to flow from memory
or from the usual notion of thought:
a sound that buds in the captive silence
with a distinctive spin or emphasis
heard like a signature or fingerprint;
a name and greeting that coyly unfurl
and then a conjury of uncurling words
with the smooth imperative of whispers
sprouting in a room that just went still;
which say how dear you are to him who speaks,
and darling, what has closed your ears till now?
A voice, then another, unfolding, which say,
with the benefit of all our brilliance,
together with you, what we couldn’t do,
which say, one will love you, one will not,
which say, we’ve watched you from the other side
of many mirrors where you’ve watched yourself
—words that overlap and lift and lull,
lush and variable as waves or leaves,
rich with random disembodied love,
a laugh, a lure, a vow, an incantation,
and yes, from this deep cup we drink to you:
No voice is ever new, and ours is yours.
All watery gardens we were dreamers in.