into red and orange, into mulch,
into the glow before the earlier dark.
The long, slow story of the spark.
I was born into an orange-red,
twilight entwined in rustles,
stones of Venice in worn
grey that absorbs the ways
of children’s feet in swarms,
the swaying wavelengths of the world.
I was born into this month
whose glow is quickened into a heart,
my print enwrapped in silent turf,
in the swishes of a last undergrowth.
In mother’s anxious whispers
and father’s throbbing shouts
and the rippling washing lapping
of rising tides all around.
I was born into the slow digressions
of rivers converging into
the motherly lagoon’s lap, the soul
that both contains and overflows.
I was born in earnest and in haste
in this long gash of a month
and now, in the familiar waste, on the train
of these thoughts of words like rain
I just stand alone in my own flood.
Let me indulge then, let me say
to the god who well knows how to sway
-go slow towards such a time,
I do not want to hurry towards decline.
Wait for me, even if I sit in fake gold,
let me tap all memories on the threshold
that can be thrilled and slowly enthralled
while I try to distil some eternity in my fold.
Forget me, forget all about my end
and with airy nonchalance postpone my bend,
you know anyway I’ll become bones,
and all time will come anyway,
but now please postpone.
October 13th 2013.