I pluck pears and white flowers to survive these days, romping naked as La Danse, rotten
pastoral that I am, as a Ghost of Time cuts the last of your hair and lets me love you.
And I know what they mean by expressionism (and I did not before now), the sun setting
so brightly over shallow green peaks with its long shadow rays blacker than poppies,
buds I have held so close to my chest I thought we might both erupt from the earth and
form islands of our own; yes, right here in the valley (can you see the Summit from your
window?) . If I were only half as crazed, for lately I am drunk on my own blood , I might
tell you how I am Alive (this is not always true) and how your whole self reminds me of
the Delta as it shifts through silt becoming shale becoming rock and never decides
anything at all
but (2) things: 1) your love for Dance (I) and your dislike for fauvism even as I
cite the merits of Music and divide the sky into blocks of color, us both realizing
that 2) the worst thing that could ever happen is happening now, a sun ceasing to
exist, Orion like a eucharist as day is now dusk and
suddenly knowing that I will never be here with you in this very moment again
for as long as we shall live.