Like Watching the River

It rains and so I take to the forest, trails that circle hills rising to crests from which other hills are visible, barely. Composing melodies in how we live. Finding breakfast waiting. You were my heart once, you clarified it was a prism, and then the light came and you were the light, and no longer a you to whom I was beholden, being you myself and also, hey, look how pretty everything is. Sex beginning in understanding which deepens so perfectly that even sex is ended in it. Letting bunches of clover grow close to the back stairs, a gift unto the cosmos. This is you writing! Chrisoula draws the sheet over me after, leans to kiss me, and I hold her briefly against my chest, feeling that old feel from growing up, if only I were a tree then all would be well. Oh Thérèse how will I ever thank you, oh Sean you know perfectly well how to thank me, get on with it. Pausing where stars are visible. What is the plural of yes when written? When all our plans involve umbrellas. So much that seemed to matter no longer does, even the sense I am a broken man fades, like watching the river carry a camellia blossom round the bend. Fetch your mandolin friend I want to teach you a song I learned in nineteenth century Ireland!