My track is not that of the philosopher
chasing the sneaking traces of things;
and even if I were to invoke some highbrow lore
the absence descried would not be more
hole, gap, a plenitude between the lines
than this life’s grounding hiatus, lacuna –
because she is the song beneath the song,
because she is the condition that permits my voice
to stand, and even to stand alone, rich
pickings from the ruddy air she’s left behind.
She is the gust that bellows in my mind
and the earth freed by the far-off light from the star
I might become, sooner or later. And the elision
she leaves in her wake has no due spring
because she is the opposite of winter.