In drought the mind clouds with humid visions,
and in cold seas we sail for the islands of summer
where pink roses of pleasure petal open
and fall in fleshy haloes on the grass. Serenity
waits for us in the green silence after
love, in the aftertaste of wine, in the heaven
where we imagine we could linger forever.
But desire gathers on the boundaries of difference
like droplets on a cold glass in warm air,
and when the sparkling moment eventually warms
to the general mood, the dew steams back
to its former self, drifting toward some
new island in time. Aren’t we like that?
Wouldn’t the long incarcerations in happiness
leave us longing for sadness, praying for a few
flames to singe our ease, for archipelagoes
of pain to erupt in our seas of content as reasons
for sailing, as the indispensable linkage of our lives.