Nocturne

The cities'
last consonant 
trembles
we lay as if flowers
were not born of clay
science slips our nape
our math is dumb before her
she ebbs the square of 
our root
sadness's proposal lies 
dumbfounded

finds us in 
fireflies

and we are here in her womb
like Van Gogh's pink peach tree
more 
    or
        less

 
       unseen
   seeing

but how can I speak of such
I can say a night butterfly caressed my skin
I can say I am a filament for silence
I can say how flower petals fall within
steedless
I can say look! the light!
the light of the night!
and you might laugh at me
and she will find you
in curves
deep

or deeper

still

I am numberless
she bathes my before and after
leaves my unspoken and trembling
and I call to her and call
and she comes and comes
in all curves

I can't keep

first published in Crannóg 38