you always said i

reminded

 

you of light.
chardonnay

 

tastes like light, fruit

and light.

 

and these photographs,
these words, are only

 

light and shadow on

paper. but this wine

 

is space, the purest

space, soft

 

and round like
old bizen.

 

they say i’ve been alone
all day in a hundred
 
different rooms, pressing

my lips against
 
their stone white walls
and crying.

 

but i can feel the power
of the earth and sun

 

driving through my

dreams, my love —

 

and taste you in my

mouth, like

 

dust-covered grapes

and vines and

 

sunlight splattering

quietly across the
 
yellow-green leaves

of harvest.

 

of course, i still want to

pray at vespers,
 
i still want to sing
ockeghem,
 
but i’m afraid to open
my mouth and
 
hold my breath,

and pretend

 

that i am dead. but

when i

 

wake up, i’ll be lying

in a field
 
of rocks and

pebbles,
 
with glistening

eyes
 
of blood and stone —

and i can

 

reach out
through

 

this little window,
i can reach

 

out towards the

morning with

 

my silver hand,
and i

 

can touch the light.

i can. i can.