the last i saw you, you cried,
and i think you may have died that day,
but i could never be sure in the open
and the church was hurrying us out.. .
and it must have been a trick of the fading light
to see the grey turn black in your eyes..
i was so used to your jacket around my shoulders.

it was raining then, and i
felt the drops much deeper than before
so i am sure, somewhere right now,
somewhere, you must have
touched something,
and it must be raining.
it must be raining on the other side of the world.
it must be, it has to be....
and you must be smiling, in the wet
same manner, with your cap
crammed deep into your back pocket
and some insane walking stick carved
by the palm of your dreamlined hand.

you must be wearing thin with all this,
wandering the path of nowhereness
chewing on the roots that leave a coffee smirk;
and i imagine you have become
overgrown with the new green of truth
silencing, or at least stilling, what used to be
an immensely wellversed imagination.

i wonder if your hair is longer than mine by now.
tangled and twisted by visions
and by leaves and by fingers other
than my own used to do. ..
i despise the moon and the wind
to be able to see you and feel you
each and every night and day;
and all those native eyes from trees and wooden windows
taking you in, drinking deep
in the well of, what i am sure has become,
your wilderness. ..
your wildness, a sleepwaking child, invisible
and content to be so.
what makes you stay? what made you leave?
what must the rain be releasing inside of you?

i can hear the clouds breaking with your prayers.

and the new ink around your ribs must
be a telltale description of what life should be;
love, beauty, and God
all so delicately close to the heart, but not encaged.
and with every breath, it must feel as if the artist
traced your scars instead of your bones.
but you camouflage well, and your frame
finds the earth a better place than my arms.. ....

and i can picture you; that saint around your neck
dangling in the halflight, enjoying the peepshow
of changing hues and i know how that saint must feel:
being so close to your soul but never
really touching it, hearing the Jupiter rhythm
of your strength, but always through the veil of skin. ..

it is raining now, and i
feel the drops much deeper than before
so i am sure, somewhere right now,
somewhere, you must have
touched something,
and it must be
raining.

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