The Blue Book


I met myself,
long on a lonely road,
dusty and tired and worn down
to its barest part,
naked on top of a hill,
broken up by endless commas,
stops, and strange scare tactics,
watching our rock roll down
and singing softly about
the benediction of water,
making uncertain way
for the sound of summer rain
and a simple sign
above a red and white windmill
hidden in an old forest,
where we found the one
task no god can conceive:
to confess and ask forgiveness
of the heart which knows you better;
a beat behind every love note
and torn photograph you let me peel
from your chest that night.

To sit for a while,
empty bowl in hand
and speak of a feast,
just lately set,
the gold centrepiece ablaze
and ringing out its love
for everything lost,
weaving a new story
from so many tangled strands
about how loss is only
a more roundabout return
to what is;
about how the Earth
has always welcomed her own;
about the willing sacrifice
of one wild and precious life
and how it led
to a band named after a monkey
playing a new myth,
made of music
and empty mind
and enargeia;

the whole crowd ecstatic and,
for a moment, eternal.


Love after love

Can transcend time