You separated moment, you resemble your sister,
millions of light years ahead. An orchestraâs sound
is easier to seal in mid-air, to imprison there,
than it is to return youâa momentâto the ground
and know you are mine again; and also to experience the pleasure,
the harvests of your plow-mouth; that raw, vernal flow,
the seeds of kisses in the teething gardens and to drink
your music a second time, a second time around.
Your gentle quiver still crouches in me in a nest of fingers,
as I would touch a small bird, the size of the pupil of an eye.
A golden moment-bird with wounded sweetness,
and I want to pull it back into my empty nest of fingers.
But you are farther than thought, you are as if unborn,
millions of lightyears ahead and from there you barely burn.
I have not even been able to accompany you there
and experience our joy a second time, a second time around.