Listen for the sound of my voice—
So stalk along with me, along the towpath:
a reflection of the sky, pink in the haze of winter. Ghosts
in the canal — or were these the glimmers of trees?
No matter; I go on without the suggestion of a light.
Then it is spring. A sketch of paintbrush as it grows
in the mountains, by the nightshade and faded grass,
heard of in the songs of the desert; sons that no longer
exist, except in the windy season, seen in the dust as it covers
the trees. The first time I saw true summer, the air muck,
the growth by the side of the road, green, purple, red yellow pink
blue white — and I alongside it, surveying the water: thick
and pearlescent with algae and exhaust. Telephone poles like
giants stretching west. The world aged, burst into flame;
life was a taught reed, breaking. I caught a leaf for luck
and listened for your voice, and wandered along the path:
nothing, not an echo.
Just the wind, and my face through rippled water.