a lonely impulse of delight

i paint this night with dots and 

lines

over linen and 

silk

flowing my memory like 

quiet Sava.

stars came down that 

night

under the bridge by 

the terminal, and i 

lifted each

through my fingers, 

dripping pale and 

cold.

at the end of my

sigh

just like the end of that 

road,

walking endless

hours,

you were still nowhere to be 

found.

whose name must i 

utter now

so that i 

may wash yours

away and 

whose countenance must i 

gaze

that i 

may close my eyes and 

no longer remember that 

fair hand of yours

hushing my unrefined 

confession.

tonight, i 

am walking down that 

dusty road to 

meet you and 

be back by that 

river.

come tomorrow i

promise, i 

won’t be here, 

either,

dripping each night through 

my 

fingers.