And so, the canal
where you fell in,
like a terrible dream…
I pulled you out, you were drenched
and cried and were angry, right,
with the stupid tourist that
for all the carelessness of the world
for her hurry or God knows,
pushed you in.
You, floating there,
what a scare,
what a preposterous suddenness,
but in my memory you soon were
in a pool of light.
Memory, fear, loss
and the multifarious pools of silence.
But when I passed by the canal,
the green pool of water lightened my heart.
It did, so. Nevertheless it did,
despite the anger after our row the next week,
despite the memory of me leaving
among the whooshing cars.
Despite the cries and the miles
of asphalt between me and you,
despite feeling I could never see you again,
despite the pools of silence,
the sense of lingering nothingness.
And so, the memory
and the words in this early darkness
and your voice on the phone
and the pools of hours and days
in which I am floating, in a way,
like you were, in the green canal.
Or on the roads upon which I slide
like a whooshing question.
In the pool of this moment,
with in my heart
the memory of your face.
Your cheekbones I trace.
In this pool that becomes a sea.