And that was something, like the Bauhaus buildings disturbing
the night, sixty candles lit up over the Hwang Ho river,
burning yellow in the nylon evening into the sorrow;
Ictalurus furcatus swimming in the naked lamplight pond,
as time went on pushing caravans and carnival carts
into the ashen snow; so many cats in an emptied glass
as I saw your face in the afterglow. And that was something,
and all there is, this irony; this flat iron of evening, dust to years
pushing verandas like tears and
tiny dancers we dreamed of aureate dragons,

and I saw your fears. And that was something, this ordinary
theatre where the blank spaces go,
so many poets w/out pens or pencils,
no paper for the imagined shadows, tired all these walls
(so solitary the dead night) slip behind books-
and you parked your angry bicycle outside on the gentle lawn;
yesterdays gone. And that was

something, without dreaming their own hands the puppets
seemed impossible to tell their limits of clouds,
if not for you, themselves, this harmony dies
with love a death of the Roman’s temper,
their tempest a tragedy, so I watched you shut the door. And
that was something, so many orbits coagulating into corners,
ribbons of footprints for the horses deep and grey; those
blue umbrellas we placed upon the old soldier’s grave, smoking
(at ease in the sparkling light) you gave to me the myths of your
exquisite hands. And that was some

thing. Pausing for the possibility to speak,
all those ravaged, renegade moons
like Wagner operas unreachable as the stars, buried into
symbolic silence those bonsai plants crawl incomplete,
failures of love poems all those paintings failed to express,
as in Oslo where Edvard Munch laid the Vampire’s kiss:
forsaken insects, and I let your fingerprints leave my lips,
and,

that was something, to breathe our throats in trees
like swallowed instruments, insurmountable in the awareness
of ourselves, we traveled the night by highways and films,
speaking subtle lines of the actors we never were -
echoes, shadows, open flashlights
down in the indigo rooms, and I tasted you as you left without a word.
And that was
something,


broken bottles and the ships that never sank,
like historical creatures some would call Cthulhu, China or home,
these threads through chance and trial
as courageous as the fetus of gods,
what was it that Heir Nietzsche said,
about the changes of the soul? As if that was only tomorrow,
and I watched
you
go,

And that was something, half-drunk and velvet as a Valhöll king adhering to the immortal discourse (in confusion such brilliance), we
write in our novels the origins of snakes, of slings and we make no sense of our arrows, the smile sings separate from the heart,
and Death as the bird of Jove flies above
the tenement mountains and pastel cities keeps thorns
to hold complacent all the final thoughts as if any of it
ever mattered, and I felt you squeeze my soul and slip away
as if that

was something. Perhaps it is the unknown colours where we hide
our most arcane secrets, and perchance we lay quiet as the womb
to give our prayers half the chance,
so many wings in this mystic pain, I remember
you in the molecules and among all those emerald ivy vines,
those desperate anthropomorphic masks of us all,
among the vein of trains, trails and rhythms;
of motions, so sensual as music the horizons of your body,
and these bones aching for the piano to awake our sheltering cage,
our arias, our moth-

shaped winds, as if anything was something - intimacy again
(this vision thing), only when you place your knee upon my head,
the hours applaud...

...it can never be written.

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