Narcissus, with a guitar – Daniel Viorica

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.